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By “ Rita " 


The Iron Stair 
The Rubbish Heap 


THE RUBBISH HEAP 


BY 

“RITA’’ 

(MRS. DESMOND HUMPHREYS) 

AUTHOR OP “THE IRON STAIR,” “CALVARY,” “THE 
SLJNGER,” “A GREY LIFE,” “PEG THE RAKE,” ETC. 




G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Ube Iknicfterbocber press 

1917 


INK. 



Copyright, 1917 

BY 

G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 


y 



MAY -5 1917 


‘Cbe ftnfcfeerbocfeer iprcee, Hew Uorfc 


©CI.A4G0595 




"M? 




My Dear Old Friend Carrie 


(“MRS. PAT”) 


IN MEMORY OF DAYS PAST AND PRESENT 



“Here or there in the Rubbish Heap of life may- 
shine some pearl of purity. ” 



CONTENTS 


PAG 8 


Scene I. 

Prawle Port and Town 

1 

" II. 

The Second-Hand Shop 

16 

44 III. 

Same as Scene II. 

28 

44 IV. 

The Dining-room in Aggle- 
stone House . 

42 

41 V. 

The Rubbish Heap 

52 

44 VI. 

The Atelier, or Studio, of 
Christopher Agglestone. 
A Week Later . 

66 

An Interlude. 

Art and Prejudice 

83 

Scene VII. 

The Studio Again. Some 
Weeks have Passed 

92 

44 VIII. 

In Agglestone House . 

104 

“ IX. 

The Curio Shop . 

113 

44 X. 

The Lone Isle . 

130 

An Interlude . 

Mara Roams 

142 

Scene XI. 

The Drawing-room in Ag- 



GLESTONE HOUSE. THE 

Same Evening . . .154 


vi 

Contents 


Scene XII. 

The White Room 

PAGE 

1 68 

“ XIII. 

Christopher’s Studio . 

180 

“ XIV. 

Katty Quirke’s Kitchen . 

191 

44 XV. 

Christopher’s Studio. Five 
o’clock — THE SAME DAY . 

203 

An Interlude. 

The Wheels of Time Roll 
Back .... 

215 

Scene XVI. 

Christopher’s Studio. Mid- 
night .... 

228 

44 XVII. 

The Lone Isle. Five Years 
Later .... 

234 

44 XVIII. 

The Drawing-room in Ag- 

GLESTONE HOUSE. EVENING 

of the Same Day 

247 

An Interlude. 

The Call of Erin 

264 

Shifting Scenes. 

The Past Returns 

281 

An Interlude. 

The Lone Isle ; looking back- 
wards .... 

328 

Scene XIX. 

The Dining-room in Aggle- 
stone House. Morning . 

339 

44 XX. 

The Lone Isle. Noon of 
the Same Day 

344 

44 XXI. 

Interior of Agglestone 
House. Evening 

357 


Contents vii 

PACK 

Scene XXII. On Irish Sea and Soil . 370 

“ XXIII. The Little Home in Ireland 380 

An Interlude. Brian o’ Linn . . . 395 

Scene XXIV. Within and without the 

“Little House* ’ . . 408 

“ the Last. Agglestone House Again . 431 



The Rubbish Heap 


SCENE I 

Prawle Port and Town 

The old seaport of Prawle with its half mile of quay 
fringed by lading or unlading vessels, its large and 
ugly warehouses, and its beautiful harbour has a 
history at once romantic and important. 

The town itself is very ancient. It speaks of de- 
parted glories, of days when trade was vast and pro- 
sperous; of other days still further removed when it 
formed a Saxon settlement that was rudely devastated 
by Danish hordes. The Romans had also had their say 
in the matter of roads and camps and boundaries of 
the county; but not till after the Norman Conquest 
did the town become a port of embarkation. From 
that period onwards to the days of Elizabeth it pro- 
spered and throve, and owned great charters, and 
sent its seamen to fight Britain’s naval battles with 
much glory and success. But all triumphs have an 
aftermath of declining glory, and piracy and civil 
warfare took the place of commercial integrity. In 
the days of Charles I. and Cromwell the territory of 
Wessex was divided and distraught by conflicting 


2 


The Rubbish Heap 

opinions. Prawle showed itself turbulent and stiff- 
necked, and voted rather for Parliament than for King. 

In the inland counties greater loyalty existed, and 
the famous castles of the district were manned by 
Royalist forces and held for the King. Not so the 
bumptious little seaport. It raised defences and 
fought vigorously, holding fast its battlemented gate 
at the main entrance of the town. That it suffered 
afterwards for such temerity goes without saying, 
but its trials and difficulties met with sympathetic 
chroniclers who have furnished apt illustrations of its 
history down to the eighteenth century. By then it 
had come to be possessed of burgesses and mayors and 
bailiffs, also its coast had proved a tempting play- 
ground for smugglers. The town had become sadly 
impoverished, and its vicissitudes ended in a per- 
ceptible decline of trade and prosperity. 

The seaport of modern days differs widely from that 
of the old historians and chroniclers, and the appear- 
ance of the town has entirely changed during the last 
century. Few relics of the past have been preserved, 
though some ancient portion of its stone walls pro- 
claims the seaward defences of old. But there is 
little left of ancient borough or glorified tradition. 
To question even the oldest inhabitant is to learn 
nothing of all that made fame or history. Even 
the town cellars between harbour and custom- 
house possess no direct evidence of having held out 
against the Spaniards. The ancient church has been 
rebuilt, the guildhall no longer stands on its original 
site of prosperity and importance. In the High Street, 
which bisects the town, a few of the old stately houses 
still remain, but the greater portion of that thorough- 
fare consists of shops, and its atmosphere is more 


Prawle Port and Town 


3 


utilitarian than picturesque. Yet here and there 
in some quiet lane or narrow turning the past 
breathes again from a quaint doorway, or a timbered 
house-front, and behind high walls some greystone 
mansion still speaks of ancient glory, of some names 
half forgotten, or a race extinct as the burgher or sea- 
lord of its founding. There are narrow alleys too, 
and dark tumble-down cottages, and queer shops 
whose very existence is mystery, and whose goods 
appear to present the last thing in what might be 
labelled 4 4 unsalable/ ’ 

But, apart from the departed glory of the town, 
the quay still stands as important. Coaling vessels 
are moored there, queer foreign barques come in for 
anchorage, or the discharge of cargo. And steamers 
too crowd in, bringing pleasure-seekers, or holiday 
folk. Fishing craft are many, and their owners 
drift to and fro the old quay front, or lounge outside 
the doors of bar and beerhouse. Their trade is 
prosperous enough in those surrounding waters, and 
every town in the neighbourhood offers itself as a 
market. The quay owns more life and vitality than 
the town, and clings to marine significance as to 
heraldic bearings. It still claims to be “the Port,” 
and its ancient inhabitants call it that with some pride 
of remembered possession. Those who have lived 
and worked there hold tender memories of that 
harbour, the safest and most beautiful on all the 
curving coast line. And Prawle itself, grey, scarred, 
weather-beaten, keeps watch over its cherished pos- 
session, knowing that ambitious rivals have snatched 
its one-time glory from its hoary head, yet content 
to dream and doze in the soft sunshine of declining 
years. 


4 


The Rubbish Heap 

Among the few remaining “great” houses which 
once held notable tenants is one of solid stone ; square 
and uncompromising of aspect, and set in a large 
walled wilderness of garden, and shrubbery. It has 
been the property and dwelling-place of one family 
for many generations. Like the town and its in- 
dustries the family has declined and lessened, and 
the mansion has finally passed into the hands of two 
maiden sisters. They had lived there all their lives, 
had seen father and mother pass into the final rest 
of all active existence, and thencef or wards drifted 
on in the routine of quiet uneventful days, dating 
oven their emotions in the early Victorian fashion 
which had been their upbringing. The house was 
large and sombre. Its whole tone echoed the sombre- 
ness. The furnishing and arrangements were of that 
solid, ugly, and yet pretentious style which had dis- 
tinguished Windsor and Balmoral, and sent shudders 
of horror down the delicate spines of those blessed 
with any sense of the artistic. 

But the two Miss Agglestones, being the fortunate 
possessors of mid-Victorian tastes, saw and felt nothing 
amiss in large-patterned wall-papers, or walnut wood 
chiffoniers, or the “ rep ” and damask upholstery which 
distinguished their sitting-rooms. Four-post bed- 
steads heavily draped, and chintz-flowered dressing- 
tables, and mahogany wardrobes were all they had ever 
known in their own or their parents’ bedchambers. 
Each and all of these showed the same solid sense of 
usefulness, as apart from beauty, which was the dis- 
tinguishing mark of their day. Augusta Agglestone 
and her sister Miss Jane never saw anything that 
demanded improvement, because improvement spelt 
change, and that was of all things . the one most 


Prawle Port and Town 


5 


dreaded by their repressed unemotional souls. All 
their life they had been sheltered, guarded, ordered, 
and controlled. When death robbed them of this 
careful guardianship they sank into yet deeper seclu- 
sion, rarely going out of their own grounds save for 
church, or shopping, or an occasional formal visit to 
“county” folk in the neighbourhood. 

The two sisters were curiously unlike, even in 
their likeness to one another. Augusta, the eldest, 
possessed a certain sharpness of tongue and temper, 
combined with the domineering proclivities of the 
acknowledged ruler. For she ruled both her house- 
hold and her more timid sister as she believed she 
ruled the neighbourhood itself. She prided herself 
on this uncompromising attitude, believing it a 
heritage of that stormy period of family history linked 
with the Civil War, and the Charters of Prawle. 
An Agglestone had done something great and won 
the praises of a King. That the said King was a 
vacillating and worthless monarch made no difference 
to the deed, or its records. The vicissitudes of an- 
cestry had followed the vicissitudes of the seaport 
itself, but Augusta Agglestone could point proudly to 
a portrait on the dining-room walls, and say: “ That 
Agglestone wrested a confirmation of the liberties 
of our town from Charles the Second!” 

Everyone believed the story. It seemed to set a halo 
of reflected glory around the stiff bandeaux of Miss 
Augusta’s head. She always wore her hair draped 
each side of her head, and covering her ears. Miss 
Jane, on the other hand, favoured a less formal style, 
and a shower of flaxen ringlets softened the contour 
of her pale and delicate face. They lent something 
girlish and appealing to its expression. 


6 


The Rubbish Heap 

In this setting of house and home, and in this 
tranquillity of ordered days, the two maiden sisters 
had passed over forty years of life. It never occurred 
to them that the oncoming thirty or forty which they 
anticipated, as a family record of longevity, might be 
harshly interrupted. Yet such was the will of Fate, 
and the decree having thus gone forth from those 
mysterious regions where the Mystic Three work their 
spells for mankind’s undoing, it brings us to the active 
portion of this history, leaving the scenes described 
as a background for the players in its drama. 

The Action in the Scene 

The morning post rarely brought anything of 
importance to Agglestone House. Yet one spring 
morning a letter lay beside Miss Augusta’s plate, 
in an unknown handwriting, and bearing a foreign 
postmark. 

A rigid adherence to the rules of her well-ordered 
existence delayed the opening of the missive despite 
natural curiosity. Family prayers had to be read, 
and the servants finally dismissed, and the tea poured 
out for Miss Jane and herself before she could allow 
of breaking the seal of even so important a document. 

But the moment at last arrived for such permission. 
She took up the letter and regarded it with some sense 
of foreboding. Anything strange or unusual meant a 
change in the ordered routine of life, and change was 
to be dreaded rather than acclaimed as interesting. 
Miss Augusta’s eyes glanced over the first page, then 
her hand turned the flimsy sheet and she read the 
signature. By this time her sister’s sense of some- 
thing unusual had brought her mind into action. 


Prawle Port and Town 


7 


She sat gazing at Miss Augusta’s changing expression, 
and curiosity awoke. She lifted the envelope from 
the table and looked at it. 

“What is it, Augusta? Who is writing to you 
from abroad?” she enquired. 

“Abroad! How do you know the letter is from 
abroad?” demanded her sister sharply. 

Miss Jane pointed to the envelope. “I only just 
peeped at the postmark, dear. I — I couldn’t help 
feeling a little bit curious,” she stammered. 

Miss Augusta’s answer was to slam the flimsy 
sheet down on the table, and burst forth into inco- 
herent wrath. “Of all things in the world to have 
happened! Unheard of, disgusting, impossible! A 
boy too! What can we do with a boy here? Who 
wants a boy? How dare he suggest such a thing! I 
won’t agree! I shall write and say ” 

“But what boy? Who on earth is sending a boy 
to us?” cried Miss Jane, in wide-eyed astonishment. 

“He is sending himself,” said Miss Augusta, “or 
at least it was his father’s dying request. But for 
that I have only his word!” Her eyes fell on the 
tea, and the cooling slice of bacon on her plate. It 
was unprecedented that she should have forgotten her 
breakfast for sake of any outside interest. With a 
supreme effort she choked back her indignation and 
rose to the occasion of her well-ordered life. She put 
down the letter, resumed her seat, and commenced 
her breakfast. 

Miss Jane, in a vortex of mingled feelings, watched 
her, not daring to put any more questions. Her own 
appetite had entirely disappeared, and she sipped 
deprecating mouthfuls of tea, and crumbled her slice 
of toast into wasteful fragments. 


8 


The Rubbish Heap 

But Miss Augusta’s self-will still controlled the 
situation. She never glanced at her sister but went 
on with her own meal in a preoccupied yet stern 
fashion as if defying boys to interfere with even one 
rule of self-discipline. At last Miss Jane timidly 
broke the silence. 

“You — you were so vague, Augusta,” she insinu- 
ated. “Am I to infer from what you said that we are 
to have a visitor?” 

“Visitor!” snorted her sister. “A pretty sort of 
visitor! An incubus for life it seems to me ” 

“For life?” gasped Miss Jane faintly. “My dear 
Augusta, what in the world has happened?” 

Then Miss Augusta broke through one of her rules, 
and conceded to curiosity what she might have with- 
held from ordinary interest. 

“You had better read that letter, ” she said. 

Miss Jane needed no second permission. She 
seized the letter, and commenced to scan its fine 
close writing with eager haste. Its information 
was at once so novel and startling that she 
fell to interjections long before the second page. 

“But, my dear Augusta . . . why — what on 
earth ! . . . good heavens ! I — I never knew we had 
a brother — did you?” 

“Of course I did,” snapped Miss Augusta, setting 
down her cup. “But there was no need to tell you of 
him. Philip had disgraced the family. He ran away 
from school, went abroad, married some foreign 
woman — and now — just see what it will mean to 
us!” 

“But why need we consent — surely you can 
refuse to have the boy here? He could go to a 
school, he needn’t live with us? Of course,” she 


Prawle Port and Town 


9 

added thoughtfully, “we must provide for him, but — 
that’s all.” 

“All? Don’t you understand? Did you read 
this?” Miss Augusta almost snatched the flimsy 
sheet from her sister’s hand and read aloud : 

“And so it is, ma tres chere tante, that I request of you a tempor- 
ary resting place; a pied & terre, as one says, while I collect my 
bewildered senses and form for myself a plan of life. My poor 
father desired most strongly that I go to his country and his 
home. My health is not good, and I fear to face a cold and 
friendless world. I have but little money, but I would pay you 
for my pension , if you so desire. I have heard you are wealthy, 
and yet lead the vie triste of those who have formed no marriage 
ties. [“Did you ever hear such impertinence!”] I would be to 
you as a son, if you would so permit. I assure you I am bon 
camarade , as one says; easy to please, content with little, gifted 
also with some talent. Invite me then to your home, and take 
me to your heart, and so let us bury the so unhappy hatchet of 
differences in the past. With deep anxiety I await your response. 
Yet so aware am I of your goodness of heart that I make to 
myself no anxiety on the point of acquiescence. Accept, dear 
my aunt, the assurance of the best respect and affection from 
“Your devoted nephew, 

“Christophe Philip Agglestone.” 

‘ ‘ There ! Did you ever hear such a rodomontade ? ’ * 
exclaimed Miss Augusta. “I don’t know what to 
reply.” 

“He might arrive almost before a letter,” said 
Miss Jane nervously, “taking it for granted that we 
should receive him!” 

‘ ‘ He might, ’ ’ said Miss Augusta gloomily. “ It is a 
most unpleasant predicament.” 

“I wonder how old he is?” said Miss Jane. “It 
will be so strange having a boy here. From his 
letter one would imagine he has done with school. 
What name does he say?” 


IO 


The Rubbish Heap 

“ Chris-tophe. I suppose it is French for Christo- 
pher. His father might have given him a decent 
English name for sake of the family.” 

“But the family did not seem to concern itself 
with him, as far as I can understand the matter.” 

“Such observations are not in the best taste, my 
dear Jane. You know nothing of the circumstances 
and are quite unfit to criticize our parents’ actions.” 

“I ... I beg your pardon, Augusta,” said the 
younger sister meekly. “No, of course, I was never 
told anything about our brother. I often wished we 
had had one. A boy does liven up a house I feel sure. ’ ’ 

“Liven up a house! What a very extraordinary 
expression. And since when have you discovered 
that our house needed enlivening? It has seemed 
to me that our well-ordered habits and regulations 
could not be improved upon. You have certainly 
given no hint of — of discontent hitherto.” 

“I am not discontented, Augusta; only sometimes 
I have longed for a real interest in life. Something 
not quite so well-regulated as ourselves. There is 
nothing outside this house and our meals, and our 
drives and our shopping.” 

“This is news to me, Jane. I had no idea that you 
were dissatisfied with the order into which I have 
brought our affairs, and mode of living. For my own 
part I dread to think of any change. And there is 
Tomlinson to be consulted also. I am sure he will 
not approve of a stranger in the house; half a 
foreigner too.” 

“That makes it so much more exciting!” ex- 
claimed Miss Jane. “I wish I had not forgotten my 
French. I shall really try to furbish it up again.” 

The unwonted animation of her face caught her 


Prawle Port and Town 


ii 


sister’s attention. It was a disturbing sign, though a 
flush to the delicate cheeks and a brilliance in the 
mild blue eyes were not unbecoming. 

“ It seems to me, Jane, that you are unduly excited, ” 
she said. ‘ ‘ I should advise your retiring to your room, 
and a little bromide; yes, bromide — and rest till 
luncheon time. Perhaps by then I shall have come 
to some conclusion respecting what is best for all 
parties concerned.” 

She rose from her chair, and Miss Jane rose also, 
much fluttered and perturbed by these unexpected 
events. She moved towards the door, her full and 
somewhat old-fashioned skirts swaying around her 
slight figure. 

At the door she paused and glanced back at the 
stately person by the breakfast table. “Must it 
be — bromide, Augusta?” she faltered. 

If dignity could be said to start, then Miss Augusta 
certainly started. Her mind had travelled far. 
The question as a matter of importance failed to 
arrest more than transient attention. 

“Dandelion — if you prefer it, Jane,” she said, and 
gathered up the letter and envelope and took them 
to the old mahogany bureau by the fireplace, sacred 
to correspondence and housekeeping accounts. 

The bureau was as old-fashioned as the rest of the 
furniture of the house. The lid came down and 
formed a shelf for writing upon. But after drawing 
it down as usual, and placing blotting-pad and note- 
paper in their usual place, Miss Augusta sat staring 
at the row of small drawers in front of her. Then, 
with a deliberate steadiness, she opened one and 
took out a bunch of keys. She selected one key and 
applied it to a drawer at the right-hand corner. It 


12 


The Rubbish Heap 

opened and she drew it out and sat gazing at ; ts con- 
tents — a bundle of letters, a small oval miniature, 
and a little leather shoe. One by one she took out 
the articles and laid them before herself. The 
letters were a child’s letters, in large unformed cali- 
graphy, tied together with a faded rose-coloured 
ribbon. 

The hard grey eyes that had never softened to a 
child’s plea glanced through the little packet. “My 
dear Mamma.’’ Always the same beginning, and 
ending — “Your affectionate son — Philip.” 

A mother had treasured them as mothers do, 
reading her own faith and hope into the careless 
scrawls that always held a request, or gave formal 
thanks for some gift of pocket-money, or dainties. 

“I suppose she loved him,” thought Miss Augusta. 
“I wonder if Papa was too severe?” 

Her mind travelled back and back into far regions 
of childhood. Nursery days; the cold formal regime 
of domestic life as children of the Victorian era lived 
it. Always an unbridged distance between parent 
and child. Always restraint and fear; strict rules of 
duty and obedience. This brother, the eldest born, 
had been four years older than herself, eight years 
older than Jane. His flight from school had im- 
mortalized his twelfth year, and its after-consequences 
had never been revealed to the little girls in the 
nursery. Well, at any rate, he had lived his life, and 
enjoyed it, but never had he returned to his child- 
hood’s home. His mother on her death-bed had 
whispered his name and coupled it with some word of 
longing, as Augusta had knelt by her side; then she too 
had passed into the silence. Perhaps they had met, 
and learnt how feeble are life’s judgments, how 


Prawle Port and Town 


13 

natural its mistakes. How easy forgiveness when 
the barriers of life are overthrown! 

Miss Augusta tied up the letters again, and re- 
placed them in the drawer. For one long moment 
she gazed at the little oval miniature. It showed a 
childish face, frank, bright, mutinous. A face quite 
unlike her own or Jane’s. She had no memory of it 
as a likeness. Only a sort of hazy recollection of a 
restless presence and general turmoil when the brother 
had been anywhere about. He had been a terror to 
nurse and nursery alike. A wild turbulent spirit 
that hated control, and openly rebelled at discipline. 
School had not tamed him, nor any after-experiences, 
so it seemed. And now his son was to descend upon 
the household. Perhaps just such another turbulent 
spirit, working endless trouble and disaster? 

How awful it seemed to contemplate such a 
catastrophe! What could she write that in any way 
combined courtesy with discouragement? If any- 
thing else could be done, if the boy could be educated 
in the land of his adoption she was willing enough 
to pay for his schooling. But to have him here — in 
this quiet old house — amidst living memories, and 
dead dreams, and closed doors of Romance for ever 
put aside — it was impossible ! 

That was what she wrote in the cold stereotyped 
phrases of a past day; phrases as formal as the small 
Italian handwriting that stood for elegance. 

Modern life had rushed apace past this old house 
in its walled garden; past the old town of ancient 
glories; past all that had meant its history and renown. 
Agglestone House and its inmates were half a century 
in the background of real things, as they existed in the 
world of progress. 


14 


The Rubbish Heap 

It was no wonder that its mistress dreaded any 
change in the quiet routine of her days, seeing in 
change only mental and physical disturbance. It 
was no wonder that she signed and sealed her letter 
with a sigh of relief, feeling that she had done her duty 
in one sense of the word if evading it in another. 

She took up the letter, and crossed the room to 
ring for the butler to take it to the post. Her hand 
was on the polished brass bell-handle, her face turned 
from the door, when it suddenly opened. She turned 
quickly and saw the old butler standing there, his 
face impassive, his voice sounding in formal announce- 
ment of a visitor 

“Mr. Christopher Agglestone to see you, Miss!” 

Miss Augusta’s hand dropped from the bell-handle 
to her side. For an instant she stood tall and stiff 
and silent and white-faced staring at a slight boyish 
figure in quaint French clothes, looking at her with 
dark smiling eyes. 

Then he crossed the room with a slightly halting 
step. He stood before her and held out both hands in 
a polite and eager greeting. 

“Is it that you are my Aunt? One of them, I 
mean? I have two. I am so pleased to see you!” 

He took her hands. One of them still held the 
letter forbidding his intrusion into this peaceful 
household. He raised them to his lips in an eager 
foreign fashion that was charming, and wholly novel. 
His accent too was foreign, though his English was 
correct. 

“ Madame ma tante , I am Christophe, your nephew. 
I was told that you expected me. I ... I hope I am 
not unwelcome?” 

It seemed to Miss Augusta long afterwards, when 


Prawle Port and Town 


i5 


she recalled this scene, that something, or someone, 
quite apart from her cold and stately self, answered 
this query. Answered it as it demanded, and by 
so doing turned the topsy-turvy wheel of Fate in an 
unexpected direction. 

“ Unwelcome ?” So said the something, or some- 
one, controlling her mental faculties. “Of course 
not. I — we — I mean I am very pleased to see you, 
my dear — Christopher!” 


SCENE II 


The Second-Hand Shop 

Among the dark lanes and queer twisted alleys of 
Prawle Town stood a shop as dark and queer. It 
occupied a corner position commanding two streets, 
and its windows took a crooked survey of each, or 
rather they might have done so had they not been 
choked from their base to their topmost pane with a 
multitudinous collection of articles that offered 
themselves for sale as “second-hand goods” of all 
descriptions. Through one dingy window gleamed 
wonderful bits of china, old cut glass, ancient brass 
and pewter, old iron, old books, and a general litter 
of odds and ends. Through the other the passer-by 
caught sight of weird and shabby garments, peculiar 
to both sexes, and labelled with those signs of wear and 
tear and dirt and disfavour that tell their own history. 
An old oak door, speaking of more prosperous days, 
stood open to the street, and showed a dingy interior, 
and a loosely strewn counter where sales or bargains 
were conducted by the owner of the shop. 

She was at once the most interesting and the most 
curious thing it contained. A seamed and wrinkled 
face with small twinkling eyes looked out from the 
framework of a dingy black bonnet set precariously 
a-top of an ill-kept head of hair, rapidly turning grey. 

16 


1 7 


The Second-Hand Shop 

In figure the woman was short and thick-set; her 
gown was rusty black, and a faded shawl of many 
colours crossed her ample chest. 

She and the shop had held long acquaintance, and 
her history to the neighbours dated from one stormy 
winter time when one of the queer cargo boats that 
traded around the British Isles had put in here, and 
its captain, a native of Prawle Port, had established 
her at the comer shop, and announced to those it 
might or might not concern that she was his wife, 
and he had brought her from Ireland. Having fur- 
nished her with some of his own stock in trade to keep 
her from idleness during his next voyage, Captain 
Quirke set forth again and “Irish Katty,” as she 
came to be called, opened business and by dint of 
buying cheap and selling dear, made for herself and 
her shop a certain reputation. 

The Action in the Scene 

Years had drifted by, and Katty Quirke and the 
corner shop could lay claim to be joint curiosities in 
Prawle Town. Her garrulous tongue, her shrewd 
wit, her keenness for a bargain, and her total in- 
difference to appearances, had gained a reputation of 
its kind, and brought her customers of sorts. She 
would sell anything and buy anything. She loved 
sales and bargaining, and travelled to all sorts of 
districts and picked up extraordinary rubbish, and 
occasionally treasures. The shop, in course of time, 
overflowed its first modest stock and infringed on 
the living accommodation of the rooms. For this 
reason its owner would give up an occasional day 
to weeding out unnecessary, or unsalable articles, 


1 8 The Rubbish Heap 

which she deposited in an attic at the top of the 
house. This attic became a veritable lumber room; 
its contents forming a sort of general “rubbish heap.” 
It was a fair-sized room with one wide low window- 
seat from whence spread a view of the blue waters 
of the harbour, the moored vessels, and the queer 
twisting channels that gave such charm to the out- 
lying aspect of the Port. On such occasions as the 
queer old Irishwoman visited this chamber she 
was wont to seat herself on that broad window-seat 
and gaze wistfully at the shining waters and the 
passing ships. “It’s to me own land maybe they’re 
going,” she would say, and sigh at the thought, for 
never since she left her native shores had she re- 
visited them. They seemed to her as far away as a 
foreign country, and the thought of such a journey 
as had brought her to her present anchorage was 
beset with terrors of a like sort. Michael Quirke 
had once or twice suggested such a visit, but her 
answer had been decisive and uncomplimentary. 

“I’d niver again be settin’ foot in that stinkin' 
ould crock you calls a ‘vessel,’ Michael Quirke I 
No — not if you paid me a golden pound for ivry day 
o’ the voyage! I would not; so don’t ye be askin' 
me again!” 

So Michael Quirke voyaged to and fro alone, and 
sometimes he too picked up bargains in the shape of 
old silver, or Waterford glass, or Beleek ware, or a 
bit of rare lace, and these came back with him and 
found a place in the curiosity side of the shop, apart 
from the “misfits” and second-hand clothing of its 
other department. 

As time went on Katty Quirke began to complain to 
her sea-going husband of the loneliness of her life, 




The Second-Hand Shop 

and the hardships of that combined existence of 
saleswoman and housewife which made up the sum 
of her existence. He suggested help in the shape of 
someone young and active, but the idea did not 
commend itself to Ivatty, who looked upon the genus 
“ help ” as an altogether useless and worrying domestic 
appendage. 

“Is it meself would have the time to spare to be 
looking after an idle hussy o’ that sort?” she de- 
manded. “An’ she eatin’ up all the profits o’ the shop, 
an’ maybe stealin’ some o’ the stock as is lyin’ about 
convaynient. An’ the custom to go from me worse 
than it is by reason of me mind bein’ took up wid all 
I’d go through!” 

“I only thought, ” suggested Michael at a pause 
for breath, “that a girl could clean up, and maybe 
wash the windows, and cook a chop when I’m at home 
without lettin’ it fall into the cinders most times.” 

Katty turned on him a glance of outraged feeling. 

“ I know well what you’re meanin’, Michael Quirke, 
an’ it’s like a man to be castin’ misfortunes up to a 
woman, as if they was faults o’ hers, instead o’ just 
accidents as might be after happenin’ to any one. 
An’ maybe it’s some kind o’ gurl ye’ve got in your 
eye, as ye’re thinkin’ o’ plantin’ over me in me quiet 
respectable home, to be flauntin’ herself as if she was 
house-parlourmaid and cook in one to the gentry 
hereabouts. It’s meself knows what they are, and 
Mrs. Nally down the High Street beyant keepin’ a 
registry office. Sure, don’t I know enough from her 
of the trials o’ servants and the ways they be changin’ 
places, an’ the airs they giv’ thimselves. It’s sooner 
workin’ me fingers to the bone I’d be than havin’ - 
one o’ thim in the house!” 


20 


The Rubbish Heap 

Michael Quirke, who was indulging in a sort of 
“high tea” festival after one of his voyages, set down 
his cup, and pushed aside a plate that had contained 
fried bacon and eggs. 

“What a one ye are to talk, Katty, ” he said, and 
produced a well-worn pipe from his pocket, and 
proceeded to light it. 

“Vv r ell, do ye be sayin’ what’s in yer mind,” she 
answered. “For ’tis meself can see ye’ve a meanin* 
behind yer insinuaytions. It’s long enough since ye 
took interest in whether I was hard worked. What 
sort o’ help would ye be suggestin’ to me?” 

Michael Quirke’s ruddy face took on a certain 
sheepish expression. His speech too was of a hesitat- 
ing, not to say deprecating order. 

“When I was coasting this last time,” he said, 
“we got water-logged, and put in a while to land for 
repairs. And one day, I was walking around, up 
the way of the mountains, in that lonely part near the 
Carrala Valley. You know it well, Katty, for wasn’t 
it there I saw you first?” 

“It was,” she assented, her shrewd bright eyes 
fixed intently on his face. 

“Yes, of course it was,” he went on hurriedly. 
“And near the very cabin that was once your father’s, 
good honest man, I came upon a queer little bit of a 
girleen, lost and lone, and strayed like a wandering 
lamb. I got the history of her from her own lips. 
She had been left in the charge of a poor widow woman, 
ever since she could remember. Mrs. Urris was the 
name she told me, but she had been seized with a 
queer sickness and died in the night — that was the 
night before I found her wandering all alone. I took 
the creature back to the village — a poor place it 


21 


The Second-Hand Shop 

was — and all I could learn of her history was that 
this widow woman had had the care of her since ever 
she was a matter of a month of age. A silent close 
woman she was this Mary Urris, and giving her busi- 
ness to no one. I saw the priest too, but he had 
nothing to tell me. Well, the end of it was the poor 
child took a sort o’ fancy to me and wouldn’t be got 
away from me, so I just let her come to the vessel, 
and there she stayed, and — well, there she is now, 
Katty, if so be ye’d like to see her ? ” 

“ Didn’t I know there was somethin’ ye was hoi din’ 
back!” exclaimed the Irishwoman. “An’ ye wid 
yer talk o’ ‘helps’ and sarvints, is it? An’ what in 
the wide wurrld would I be doin’ wid a child, seein’ 
it’s ne’er a one o’ me own I’ve had, an’ no loss either. 
Sure, it’s nothin’ but a fool ye are, Michael Quirke, 
wid yer talk o’ wanderin’ lambs, an’ quare silent 
wimmen! A child indade! ’Twould be hindrance 
an’ not help ye’re after bringin’ me.” 

“Ye’d not say that, Katty, if you saw the girleen. 
She’s neat and handy as a grown woman. She was 
just wonderful on the vessel, so she was, and the men 
all crazy about her. Let me bring her here along, 
woman dear, and see for yourself.” 

“I want no child.” 

“But she’s not like a child; that old, and steady, 
and helpful, and the sweet little ways av her. Ah — 
don’t be hardenin’ your heart, woman, just see her 
once. There’d be no harm done, for if you won’t have 
her here I must just take her back again to Ireland.” 

“Back again! Over that turbulent sea as was 
near the death o’ meself wid the achin’ an’ wrenchin’ 
o’ me stummick, as has niver got over the memory 
to this day! Have sense now, Michael Quirke, an’ 


22 


The Rubbish Heap 


don’t be visitin’ a poor orphan wid punishments such 
as no sin o’ hers could ever have brought her!” 

Michael almost dropped his pipe in astonishment at 
the way the wind had veered. 

“Punishments!” he ejaculated. “Sure, the Lord 
Almighty Himself could never be upsides with a 
woman, and the way she’d take things! I suppose 
you’re meanin’ that I may bring her here though 
at first you’d set your mind against it.” 

“The way a man would be mistakin’ the feelin’s 
av a woman, an’ make shift to lay the blame o’ his 
own foolishness on her!” exclaimed Katty. 

“Ah, woman dear, your tongue was always the 
worst side your heart,” answered Michael. “And 
no one knows that better than myself.” 

“Ye’ll be talkin’ till daylight, I suppose,” was the 
abrupt response. “An’ I tellin’ ye to fetch the child 
here out o’ that dark dirty pit-hole, as ye calls the 
cabin o’ yer ship.” 

Michael Quirke rose, and put aside his half-smoked 
pipe. 

“I’ll do that with a heart and a half, ” he said, and 
straightway made for the door. There he paused 
and looked back. “You’ll be fixin’ up some sort o’ 
sleepin’ place, Katty? It’s little rest the creature’s 
had since we sailed.” 

“Maybe I will,” answered his wife. “There’s 
rooms enough in this ould place. She can have one 
o’ thim. Now be off wid yerself, Michael, an’ no 
droppin’ in at Nolan’s bar on your way to the quay 
beyant!” 

Michael began an indignant refutation of such a 
charge, but was pushed out into the street in the 
middle of it. 


23 


The Second-Hand Shop 

As the door closed the queer Irishwoman lit a 
candle, and ascended the dark and none too clean 
stairway. At the first landing she turned into her 
own bedroom, in itself a curiosity of panelled walls 
and odds and ends of furniture that had proved un- 
salable. At one end a door opened into a tiny closet 
containing a truckle bed and a wash-hand-stand. 

She set down the candle, and glanced round. ‘ ‘ Sure 
an’ it will serve the creature for a night, ” she muttered. 
“I’ll just fix up the bed wid some rugs and blankets, 
an’ tomorrow she can clane up one o’ thim attics for 
herself, if she likes.” 

She bustled to and fro between her own room and 
this tiny annex, throwing a pillow on the bed, and 
then some dingy blankets as covering. A small 
looking-glass hung above the wash-hand-stand. She 
filled the jug with water, and threw a towel over the 
rail, and then surveyed the chamber with approving 
eyes. 

“There’s many as would be willin’ to pay for this 
as lodgin’,” she murmured, “an’ I givin’ it up to a 
stranger just to please himself. Well, glory be to 
God, the good deed niver yet went unrewarded, an’ 
maybe the girleen will be some sort o’ a help to meself 
whin she’s settled in. I’d be expectin’ that after the 
great character himself has been puttin’ on her; 
anyway a gurl’s better than a boy, an’ she might have 
bin that an’ the same thing happenin’!” 

With which philosophical remark she took up the 
candle and went back to the kitchen, which formed 
the living-room of herself and her husband. 

It took Michael Quirke some twenty minutes to 
go and return from his house to the quay. When 


24 


The Rubbish Heap 

he again opened the door he held by the hand the 
small figure of a girl, some ten or twelve years of age. 
Her head was bare of any covering save its golden 
ripples of hair. From a small pale face two eyes 
looked out with all the wonder and the mystery of 
unawakened life. They were darkly blue as a moun- 
tain lake that only knows the shadows of the moun- 
tains, and fringed by lashes that swept her thin cheeks 
in downcast shyness. Ragged skirts flapped around 
her bare limbs and small arched feet. She was at once 
mystery and appeal, and Katty Quirke’s Irish nature 
answered to both with the inherited instincts of her 
race. 

“Come in to the fire, child, an’ welcome to ye,” 
she said heartily, but the child only clung more 
tightly to the rough hand of her protector, and 
seemed overwhelmed by an agony of shyness. 

“ Go ye in and sit down, mavourneen, ” said Michael 
Quirke. “It’s herself will be mother an’ friend to 
ye, so long as ye be behavin’ yerself, and givin’ no 
trouble, the same as you’ve done this week past on 
the little ship.” 

He freed his hand, and gave her a gentle push 
towards his wife. The child thus urged went shyly 
forward and stood before her new protectress, as 
forlorn and appealing a figure as the mind could 
conceive. Yet there was in the figure, as in the 
mysterious eyes, some sure sign of race and breeding 
that the old Irishwoman was quick to recognize. She 
pulled forward an old cushioned chair, and put the 
child into it. 

“Set ye down there, poor darlin’, an’ warm yerself. 
Sure, an’ who but a man would be leadin’ ye along 
thim cowld wet streets an’ not a shoe to yer feetl 


25 


The Second-Hand Shop 

Set ye there thin on the ould hassock, an’ let the fire 
warm yer bones. Tis cowld as death ye are!” 

The child did all she was told, silently and obedi- 
ently. But she did not speak. Michael Quirke, 
seeing that his wife was interested like himself, drew a 
chair forward, lit his pipe, and began to smoke. The 
situation was one that could explain itself at leisure, 
and he was content to leave it at that. 

For a moment there was complete silence in the 
room. The child leant a little forward in the chair 
as if glad of the warmth of the fire this chill spring 
night. Katty Quirke watched her as the colour stole 
to her thin cheeks, and the firelight played on the 
thick ripples of her hair. Then, quite suddenly, 
the child lifted her eyes and looked into the face of 
the queer old woman. It seemed to Katty like the 
lifting of a curtain or a blind that lets sunlight into a 
dark room, so did those wonderful eyes light and 
change the little pale face. 

“Glory be! why ’tis a fairy ye are! Sure what’s 
himself been doin’ at all, at all, that he’d pick up the 
likes o’ you in the wild mountains an’ bring ye here 
for all the wurrld as if ye were nothin’ but a stray ‘Moll 
o’ the bogs ’ that had lost itself in the night’s darkness !” 

She rose from her chair, and stood looking down on 
the glory of the bright head, and the fringing lashes 
that had again veiled those wonderful eyes. 

“You will not be kapin’ it in yer mind against me 
that I gave ye but a poor welcome?” she said hur- 
riedly. “Sure, ’tis blessin’ ye I am, an’ thankin’ 
the saints in me heart that sint ye here to lighten 
this lonesome place ! An’ would ye be tellin’ me your 
name, an’ how to call ye, an’ what it is ye do be 
knowin’ about yerself?” 


26 


The Rubbish Heap 

The child looked at her with wonder. Then she 
turned appealingly to her protector. For the first 
time she spoke. Her voice was sweet and very low 
and tremulous. 

“I am called Mara," she said, “and I lived in the 
mountains with the woman I called Herself. She 
told me she was no mother of mine, but had me to 
care from she who was. As for name — it’s only 
Mara I have known." 

“An’ a strange haythenish-soundin’ name it is!" 
exclaimed Katty. “Sure never a saint, nor a daycint 
Christian woman, ever owned the likes av it! Not 
but what it’s aisy to get me tongue around, though it’s 
but a poor scholar I am, an’ havin’ no use for book- 
larnin’. What did himself call ye whin ye was together 
in the ship?" 

“’Twas Mavoumeen I’d be sayin’ most times," 
observed Michael Quirke, who had listened silently 
to this colloquy. “But the other name was pinned 
to her little shift, so the priest said, and he’d know, 
for sure hadn’t he been keepin’ the paper so as ’t would 
be evidence when wanted." 

“Evidence of what?" demanded his wife. 

“What else than the rale mother as owned her." 

“I do belayve she’s no child of mortal parints!" 
said Katty, in a hushed voice. “An’ why you should 
find her, Michael, an’ why you should be bringin’ her 
here, is as mystarious as the rest av it!" 

“But ye’ll give her house-room, Katty, an’ be kind 
to the lone creature? Sure, you know well that a 
good deed niver went unrewarded in this wurrld, an’ 
a blessin’ she may be to you, an’ a comfort in the old 
age that’s coming on the two of us." 

“Well, we’ll lave it at that," said the old Irish- 


27 


The Second-Hand Shop 

woman. “So cum ye along wid me, child darlin’, 
an’ I’ll give ye a bed for this night, an’ as many as ye 
choose that do be followin’ this day.” 

The little girl rose: her feet warm and rosy as her 
face. 

“Good-night to you, Daddy Mike,” she said, and 
then turned to follow her new protectress up the 
gloomy staircase. 

Michael Quirke watched the little figure as it flitted 
through the doorway. Then he shook the ashes from 
his pipe, and rose. 

“The ways o’ Heaven are mystarious, ” he muttered. 
“Long enough have I sighed for children’s love and 
children’s voices to welcome me, an’ not till me old 
age has this fairy thing come to me, an’ whether 
blessin’ or curse she’ll be the Lord knows!” 


SCENE III 


Same as Scene II 


The Action in the Scene 

The child slept well and soundly in her warm bed. 
She rose to find that her rags had been replaced by 
clean clothing, and that stockings and shoes were 
ready for her use. She accepted all with the philo- 
sophy that was her nature, and when washed and 
dressed opened her door, and passing through Katty’s 
untidy bedroom, made her way down-stairs to her 
new protectors. 

If she had looked lovely in her unkempt distraught 
condition she looked even lovelier in the simple white 
frock that Katty had taken from out her multifarious 
stock in trade. The waves and ripples of her wonder- 
ful hair were left unbound, and formed a glory for her 
small pale face and clear-cut features. She .greeted 
her new friends with the grave unsmiling courtesy 
peculiarly her own, and answered all Katty’s questions 
in a direct simple fashion. In all she did and said 
a natural refinement showed itself, and won the 
amazed acknowledgment of the old Irishwoman. 
It also stimulated her curiosity. This was no common 
child, and her history could be no common history. 


29 


The Second-Hand Shop 

Yet no clue was given as to her identity, and Michael 
Quirke seemed unable to add any more to his story 
of her discovery in the mountains. 

She ate her porridge, and drank her milk in apprecia- 
tive silence, watched by her self-constituted foster- 
mother, who still held the opinion that “fairy” or 
fantastic had something to do with the child and 
her adventures. Her appetite was small, and she 
put down her spoon with the porridge half-finished 
in the delft bowl. Katty remonstrated. But the 
little girl only said: “It’s quite satisfied I am, and 
thank you kindly.” 

Then she rose, and began to collect the breakfast 
things, and put them neatly on the tray. More and 
more amazed Katty watched her orderly methods. 

44 Daddy Mike said I’d be useful to you, ” remarked 
the new-comer, “ and if you’ll show me where the 
4 cuddy’ is, I’ll wash all these things, and set the 
room straight.” 

Katty gave a gasp. “The Lord help us! Sure, ’tis 
all the manners of twinty she has, an’ better nor that ! ” 

4 ‘What was I tellin’ ye!” said Michael proudly. 
‘‘Sure, ’twill be a great thing for ye to have one so 
nate an’ handy about the house, an’ wid a temper as 
swate as sugar itself!” 

Katty rose from the old Windsor chair set at the 
head of the table. “The scullery’s in there beyant,” 
she said. “Ye can wash in the sink. Ye’ll find a 
basin, an’ I’ll bring the kettle to fill it.” 

But Michael, with unwonted politeness, insisted 
on doing that, and in initiating the child into the 
mysteries of a tap where the water would run through 
at a touch. It all seemed marvellous to one used 
only to an Irish cabin, with its bare discomforts and 


3 <> 


The Rubbish Heap 

earthen floor. Here were sheltering walls and clean 
red brick to stand on, and a big stove in the kitchen, 
and shelves for crockery and china. 

“It’s a grand place you live in, Daddy Mike,” she 
remarked. “You didn’t tell me half how wonderful 
it was.’’ 

“ Do ye think ye’ll be content here? ’’ asked Michael 
eagerly. “Because ye’re free to make it your home, 
an’ no one to think shame av ye, or ask yer business. 
They’re not such curious people here as those where 
you’ve come from.’’ 

“I thank you kindly,’’ she said. “I am pleased 
to have such a home, and it’s my best I’ll do to deserve 
it.” 

“Well, then, that’s settled,” said Michael genially, 
and he poured out the contents of the kettle into the 
tin basin, and showed her where the soap was, and the 
cloth for drying, and where to set the plates when 
clean. All of which she remembered, and copied in 
future days, when she had installed herself in the 
house as a natural occupant, filling a needed place. 

Her mind was quick to grasp details. She seemed 
to see exactly what there was to do, and set herself 
to do it, and that with a natural aptitude that as- 
tonished her foster-mother. Perhaps she was even 
more astonished at the order and cleanliness organized 
by this new “help.” Her own haphazard methods 
were swept aside, and she dared not remonstrate. 
Her suggestions as to “deferring ” this, or disregarding 
that, met only with a grave surprise, or the immediate 
accomplishment of the task or duty that her own 
wishes had relegated to postponement. 

In a week’s time Katty Quirke asked herself what 
she had done before Mara came? When Michael set 


3i 


The Second-Hand Shop 

forth on his next sea trip, she knew that lonely hours 
and days were things of the past. Most of the light 
household duties were taken off her hands leaving her 
free to attend to the shop, or travel on her various 
missions for bargains in the curio line. It was on one 
of her days of absence that Mara discovered the attic 
at the top of the house with its strange rubbish heap, 
and that wonderful outlook over harbour and estuary 
and islands that made the beauty and interest of 
the place. 

As she opened the door, and looked in, she gave a 
little cry of astonishment. The day was one in early 
spring. The blue of the sky was reflected in the 
shining waters. The sunlight streamed through the 
wide uncurtained window and lit up the whole pano- 
rama as if for her special benefit. She closed the 
door, and seated herself on the low window-seat, and 
fell straightway into one of those deep strange reveries 
which were peculiar to herself. 

Of what she thought, or pictured, she gave no 
sign; simply sitting there with tight-clasped hands, 
and eyes deep and dream-filled. 

In the centre of the room lay that strange heap of 
odds and ends : torn books, broken china, false jewel- 
lery ; papers, letters, old clothes ; scraps of silk, or satin; 
the accumulation of years, powdered by dust, a breed- 
ing ground for moths. 

It was a long time before her gaze turned from the 
scene without to that within. When, at last, it fell 
on the queer conglomeration a look of surprise crept 
over her face. 

She rose slowly, and went towards the great un- 
wieldy pile. There she stood, regarding it as some- 
thing altogether mysterious and unknown. At last 


32 


The Rubbish Heap 

something caught her attention. A book. A thing 
of ragged leaves, and no cover, and closely printed 
pages. She took it up and glanced eagerly at the 
printed lines set in such regular order. Then she 
began to read with the visible effort of scant scholar- 
ship. She had had but little instruction at the 
convent school, but a great aptitude and an intense 
desire to learn had given her some mastery of reading 
and writing. The book she had discovered was 
The Lays of Ancient Rome , and the swing and force of 
the words and their bold rhythm caught her fancy and 
held her spellbound by their imagery. As her interest 
grew she relapsed from a standing to a sitting attitude, 
and there remained, curled up amidst the rubbish heap, 
her eyes, brains, senses, all submerged in the visions 
wrought by the magic of poetry. 

She was unconscious of any sound below; of the 
tinkle of the shop-bell as the door opened; of a voice 
calling up the stairs to know if any one was at home. 
Of steps ascending, and growing louder, and coming 
nearer; of the quiet opening of the door and the 
presence of a stranger whose face bespoke astonish- 
ment and curiosity. 

Just as unconscious was she of the wonderful picture 
she made, her golden head bent over the tattered 
pages, her white dress flattened out on the heap of 
rags and rubbish which formed her seat; her flushed 
cheeks and parted lips speaking the vivid interest of 
an awakening soul. 

The intruder took in the picture with the eyes of 
an artist. An eager hand went to his pocket in search 
of the tools of his craft. But for once pencil and 
sketch-book had been left behind, and with a sigh of 
regret he stepped forward. 


33 


The Second-Hand Shop 

Not till he stood before her, in some way blurring 
the sunshine of the window, did the child lift her 
head and turn surprised and scarce conscious eyes 
to his face. 

Then she slowly rose, still keeping the book in her 
hand. ‘‘Who may you be?” she asked. “And why 
are you here?” 

The new-comer smiled. Voice and accent seemed 
to him delicious after the flat measured tones he had 
heard of late. 

“And who may you be?” he echoed. “A Fairy? 
or an Elf Queen who has strayed from her own lands 
and her own people?” 

“I am Mara,” she said simply. “I have come 
from Ireland. The shop below was left to my care 
this morning, and it’s negligent I’ve been, forgettin’ 
the customers as may have wanted attention. Maybe 
you ” 

She paused and looked doubtfully at the quizzical 
face, and the strange unyouthful eyes. 

“Maybe I am one?” he suggested. “That is the 
case, p'tite fee. I saw something in the window, and 
I think to myself I should like to have it for my studio, 
so I make entrance into the shop. That, in itself, 
is like a delirious dream. I try to find someone 
to serve me, but in vain. Then I came up the stairs 
and see this door standing ajar and — you.” 

She closed the tattered book. “If you’ll be cornin’ 
back to the shop and would point out the thing you 
want to buy maybe I could tell you the price of it, ” 
she said. “There’s a list of the articles and prices 
left for me, and I’ve promised to do my best what 
way I can.” 

“ I think you would make a saleswoman of the most 


3 


34 


The Rubbish Heap 

charming,” said the youth. “But why trouble to 
go downstairs? Let us sit down on that window- 
seat and talk to one another.” 

“Talk?” she repeated. “What should we be 
doin’ that for? It’s little talk I have, and less for 
strangers.” 

“Of a truth you are the quaintest thing!” he ex- 
claimed, gazing down at her uplifted eyes. “ I should 
much like to know your name, and where you came 
from? I never heard any one speak as you. If it is 
that you will not talk, perhaps you will answer me 
my questions. . . . Peut-Ure la meme chose — I mean 
the same thing. I come from France, away over the 
sea there, and I have still a trick of using the language.” 

“From over the sea, ” said the child. “ I too come 
from over the sea. He, who found me, brought me 
away in his ship, and it’s here I’m going to live for 
always.” 

“And what was the name of your country?” 

“It was Ireland,” she said simply. “It’s there I 
was born, and lived, until Herself died and left me 
lone and frightened in the cabin, so that I ran away 
over the long road between the bogs and up the 
mountains, and there Daddy Mike found me. He 
took me with him, and away to the ship, and brought 
me here, and his wife is the kind woman who says 
she will be my mother, and give me home and place 
with her.” 

“And you to say you could not talk!” said the 
strange youth. ‘ * Never is it I have heard a life-history 
more clearly told. But why do you say ‘Daddy 
Mike’ when your preserver was a stranger?” 

“He bade me call him that,” said the child. “He 
said he had always wanted a little gurl of his own. 


35 


The Second-Hand Shop 

and whin he was sailin’ the wide seas he would be 
thinkin’: ‘Maybe I’ll find her whin I go home.’ 
But he never did, so he asked me to call him that, 
an’ I said I would.” 

‘‘But he is not your real father?” 

The pretty brows puckered into a perplexed frown. 
‘‘Of course he’s not. I have no father, nor mother. 
’Twas out of the night and the silence I came, so 
Herself told me. The priest baptized me, and the 
holy Sisters taught me to read and write, and use my 
needle. That’s all I know.” 

The youth’s face betrayed interest. ‘‘All? Then 
you do not know your real father and mother; or 
how you came — what was that way you put it? — 
‘out of the night and the silence.’” 

She shook her head. ‘‘I do not. No more does 
any one.” 

‘‘But how strange! You must have had parents 
— a mother certainly?” 

‘‘Herself would say ’twas the fairies brought me 
from the heart of the mountains.” 

‘‘Well, of a truth, you look like a fairy, p’tite fee. 
I wish that I could paint you as I have seen you first. 
Sitting on that rubbish heap with the sun shining on 
your shining hair.” 

He looked down at the great parti-coloured pile in 
the centre of the room. “For what on earth is it 
there?” he asked. 

Her glance followed his. “I cannot say. It’s 
the first time I do be seein’ it meself.” 

The youth bent over the heap and began to stir it 
to and fro with the stick he carried. “ Mon Dieu! 
but what for an accumulation ! ” he exclaimed. “ The 
debris of profitless bargains, one must suppose. A 


36 The Rubbish Heap 

veritable rubbish heap, and amidst it a ‘jewel of 
Fairie’ like yourself! Ecoute done , p'tite fee , I must 
paint that picture of you as I feel it. Just this queer 
room and the window, and you with your golden head, 
and those eyes downcast upon your book.” 

He walked to and fro as he spoke. She noticed 
that one leg dragged a little, and that he used his 
stick. 

His whole appearance was unlike that of any one 
she had hitherto met. His delicate dark face ; his eyes 
half mocking, half serious; the little cynical twist of 
his mouth ; the rapid gestures of his hands. She stood 
watching him, forgetful of the shop, and his introduc- 
tion as a customer, just as he too had forgotten them. 

There existed only this room, and their two selves, 
and the rubbish heap. 

He turned swiftly to her again. “Why not? 
Y our friends — they will not object, I suppose ? W ould 
you?” 

“Would I — what?” she asked wonderingly. 

“Would you let me put you into a picture? You 
know what a picture is?” 

“Is it what I’ve seen on the chapel walls? The 
Holy Mother, and the Sorrowful Christ?” 

“Yes,” he said, “something like — that.” 

“Can — you — make such pictures?” 

Her surprised glance swept his face. He smiled 
his queer twisted smile. 

“But yes, of a sort,” he said. “I have tried — 
often enough. Sometimes it is I think I have suc- 
ceeded. But then — alas! I know I have not. I 
have had some lessons in places where I have travelled 
with my father. For always have I desired to be an 
artist. But also, alas! always there was no money; 


The Second-Hand Shop 37 

I could not get the training I required. And now, it is 
more than ever impossible!” 

He sighed deeply. 

Instead of answering she moved slowly to the 
wide window-seat and sat down. He followed, and 
then gave a sudden exclamation of delight, as the 
wonderful view stretched itself before his eyes. 

“Mon Dieu! but how beautiful! How I wish that 
I could see that from any one of our windows!” 

“Is it in the town you’re living?” she asked. 

“Yes. In that big stone house at the end of the 
High Street. You know it, I suppose?” 

She shook her head. “There’s but two weeks 
I’m here,” she said. “An’ it’s seldom I do be goin’ 
out o’ doors.” 

“It seems then we have arrived about the same 
time,” he said. “And is it not strange, also, neither 
of us have any parents, or any real home? Both 
thrown on the rubbish heap of life!” 

“Would life be like that?” she asked, pointing to 
the queer assortment from which he had drawn his 
illustration. 

“ I think it is like — that, ” he answered her. “The 
good, and bad, and indifferent all thrown of a heap 
together, to be sorted out by Chance, or left behind 
under the dust and weight of misfortunes that we 
cannot evade. Yet here and there peut-etre something 
of value; a jewel mislaid; a poet’s verse from the 
waste-paper basket; a fragment of lace from the 
milliner’s shop, a bit of colour, priceless and glorious 
as the fabric it has once represented ” 

“And books” — she interrupted eagerly. “Books 
that be torn, and soiled as this one, but with the 
beautiful words in them all the time.” 


38 


The Rubbish Heap 

“But yes, of course; books. They in their way 
also are living things. The thoughts of men; the 
passions and struggles of humanity. What is that 
special book that you still hold and were reading?” 

She handed it to him, and he glanced at the poem 
of Horatius, and murmured a verse aloud. 

“But it is not possible you understand this?” he 
said. 

Her eyes, humid with tears, met his own. “I 
don’t know what understandin’ is,” she said, “but 
it’s feelin ’ it I am — every word. It’s like music, that 
runs through your veins, as when the organ swells 
and the voices do be chantin’ the Kyrie Eleison ! ” 

“Yes, but yes, you express it well ! ” he cried eagerly. 
“What on e feels, that is the true understanding. But 
never, never, can we put that feeling into words.” 

“It would be that way you’d be makin’ pictures?” 
she questioned. 

His eyes clouded. “My pictures — no. . . . I do not 
make them. They must do that for themselves. 
Ah ! if it ever arrives that what I feel is in what I do! 
That once, but once, I paint something that shall 
live, and shall hear the world acclaim it. . . .” 

He broke off abruptly. His eyes turned to the 
wistful face. “You will let me try, will you not? I 
shall bring first my sketch-book, and do the rough 
scheme that has come to me. Afterwards, it is for 
canvas and colour to assure me I have grasp of my 
idea! This is strange talk for you, is it not? Your 
eyes look bewildered. But to me it is a joy to out- 
pour my soul and yet not meet the frozen touch of 
indifference. That — means what I receive at the 
hands of my good aunts. So good they are, and yet 
seeming to me as blind as beetles in a world of beauty 


39 


The Second-Hand Shop 

and sunlight. Nothing do they know of the beauty, 
and they draw down the blinds of their soul for fear 
of the light! But you, my child of fairie , you have 
sensibility, despite your limitations.” 

It was all so much Greek to her, these long strange 
words and strange expressions; but she caught some- 
thing of his meaning, and knew that his home and 
friends were uncongenial. Also, he seemed fond of 
talking, and she was an admirable listener. 

They sat on that window-seat for at least an hour. 
It was curious that a youth of eighteen should find 
sympathy and interest in a child of twelve. But Mara 
was no ordinary child. She had that strain of poetry 
and mournfulness inherent in the Irish race. Her 
associations had been those of nature in its wildest 
as in its most beautiful aspect. From the valleys 
and the mountains, the gleaming streams and lonely 
bogs, as well as from the folklore of the country-side, 
she had learnt deeper truths than are taught in schools ; 
heard sweeter music than is proclaimed as Art. Her 
soul had been early awakened to the wonder of spirit- 
ual things, and its purity of outlook made it a channel 
of receptivity. The poverty and hardships of her 
childish days had in no way tarnished their purity. 
It breathed through thought and action as the perfume 
of a flower breathes through its opening heart. To the 
peasant woman who had cared for her as to the holy 
Sisters who had trained and taught her she had always 
seemed something apart from themselves. A lovely 
fragile, fairy thing; too delicate for the world’s rough 
handling. Yet, when faced by a choice of the con- 
vent’s peace, or her rough guardian’s home, she 
had unhesitatingly declared for the latter. She and 
Michael Quirke had formed an instantaneous friend- 


40 


The Rubbish Heap 

ship. She had given him her trust as well as her 
affection, and thrown in her lot with his as cheerfully 
as if he had been her natural protector. 

All this the boy learnt on that sunny morning in 
the attic-room. His own vivid fancy supplied what 
was lacking in her halting words, and to both it seemed 
an unwelcome interruption when Katty Quirke’s as- 
tonished face looked in on them from the open door, 
and her voice demanded the meaning of the situation. 

The boy rose to his feet and bowed with that half- 
foreign grace of his, while he awaited a pause in a 
string of interrogation. 

The old Irishwoman, anticipating a customer, sug- 
gested immediate adjournment. Why they should 
want to sit here in this atmosphere of dust and moth 
powder and confusion seemed as extraordinary as 
their discovery of the place in the first instance. 

She led the way down the rickety unwashed 
stairs, and meekly following, the boy found himself 
forced to explain the reason of intrusion. The 
quaint bit of old brass he had seen in the window 
proved a thing of history and therefore of certain 
value. Katty Quirke was a good saleswoman, and a 
gentleman, even if in the embryo condition of pocket- 
moneyed youth, should be willing to pay what was 
asked. Christopher Agglestone, as he was now known, 
happened to have no money with him, save a few 
francs and centimes that were not current coinage. 
He badly wanted the old piece of brass, so he pro- 
mised to come back that afternoon, if Katty would 
put it aside for him. Thus she learnt his name, and 
place of residence, and having a respect for the Miss 
Agglestones, that had nothing to do with personal non- 
acquaintance, she promised credit very readily. 


4i 


The Second-Hand Shop 

“An’ you’ve come to live wid thim ould ladies, is 
it? Well, well, an’ I not to hear av it, an’ no wurrd 
get tin’ to the town! What way is Miss Jane these 
days? Does she have ease from her cough? ’Twas 
meself tould Mrs. Oakham, the housekeeper, av a 
certain cure for that complaint. But I’ve not heard 
if she’s tried it. Was there a wurrd passed to you 
about it, young gentleman?” 

“No. I did not hear my aunt say anything about 
a cough.” 

“Sure, an’ I’m glad o’ that, for it shows that her 
chest is aisier. Now, Mara, child, don’t ye be standin’ 
there, dreamin’. There’s the purtaties not peeled, 
an’ dinner-time on us!” 

The child turned at once in the direction of the 
kitchen. Christopher watched her as if amazed. 

“Does she — I mean do you permit her to work?” 
he exclaimed. 

“Work — an’ why not? Sure, little things like the 
cookin’ of a purtaty wouldn’t be hurtin’ her. It’s 
meself ’ud take care av that, seein’ I’ve grown to 
love her as me own, though ’tis nothin’ av that she 
is, seein’ I’ve niver had any child that you could name 
that way, though promised more than once, an’ 
himself just crazy for a son as should take on the ship 
an’ follow his callin’. But there I’m kapin’ ye talkin' 
an’ the mornin’ gone, an’ ye wantin’ to get back to 
the Great House, and yer lady aunts. So good-bye 
to ye now, sir, an’ the brass will be there for ye, whin 
ye likes to call for it.” 

Thanking her courteously for the promise, Chris- 
topher stepped out of the door, and went away down 
the street to the town, watched by the shrewd eyes 
of the old Irishwoman. 


SCENE IV 


The Dining-room in Agglestone House 

The table is laid for luncheon, and Miss Augusta 
and Miss Jane are seated. Tomlinson, the old 
butler, is waiting on them, his face expressive of 
disapproval. 

The Action in the Scene 

Christopher came hurriedly into the house, and 
threw down his hat in the hall, and limped into the 
dining-room, just three minutes after the appointed 
luncheon hour. 

He murmured a breathless apology as he took his 
seat and met the rebuking glance of his eldest aunt. 

“I pray you accept my excuses — I deeply regret! 
It was an affair of a bargain that I find for myself 
in a curio shop of the town. The owner had so much 
to talk that I could not get away.” 

“Serve the fish, Tomlinson,” said Miss Augusta, 
cutting short further apology. Then, in formal 
Hall’s First-Course French, she observed: 

“ Nous sommes toujour s exacte , mon neveu; n y oubliez 
pas ga. ” 

“ Je le connais bien, ma tante. Mais je vous prie 
accepter mes excuses , pour le present 
42 


43 


In Agglestone House 

Miss Augusta graciously signified he was forgiven, 
having come to a momentary break in the thread of a 
remembered vocabulary. She liked to air her know- 
ledge of French before Christopher. It showed that 
despite a retired life she was quite capable of holding 
her own in the world without. So an occasional 
canter over Hall’s Course had been instituted, greatly 
to his amusement, and much to the awe of the solemn 
butler, who considered acquaintance with a foreign 
language the sign manual of superiority in the upper 
circles. Miss Jane did not attempt to talk French 
to her stranger nephew. She was content with an 
effort to understand him when he employed it, and 
to marvel at the difference between a phrase-book 
and the idiomatic expression of phrases. 

Christopher had fallen into place in the old maids* 
household with an ease that surprised his aunts, but 
seemed perfectly natural to himself. He had at once 
explained that his extreme delicacy would effectually 
prevent him from any of the rough-and-tumble 
vicissitudes of “earning a livelihood.” He could do a 
great many things not badly, and a few things very 
well . One of the many was music, which he composed, 
played, and sung; needlework, which he wrought and 
executed perfectly, and painting, or as he called it 
art, which he adored with his whole soul, and executed 
very creditably. This, and a wide acquaintance with 
French and English literature, impressed his early 
Victorian relatives as proof of a completed education. 
He himself declared that schools and colleges were 
useless factors in the importance of life. Instead of 
a foundation they were merely a temporary platform 
to be kicked aside at the first breath of independence. 
He could talk so well, and so fluently, that Miss 


44 


The Rubbish Heap 

Augusta felt relegated to impatience or impotence. 
But, all the same, she could not resent Miss Jane’s 
breathless admiration, or quite withhold her own. 

When Christopher had demanded a large top-room, 
with a wide window, as a “studio,” and workshop, 
she had made no objection. If the boy was to live 
under her roof it was as well he should have occupa- 
tion. When, on the heels of his own arrival, a 
number of boxes and packages had come from abroad, 
she gave him free permission to have them unpacked 
and arranged in his “atelier,” as he called it. She 
would have sent in carpets and furniture to make it 
livable had he not insisted on selecting these himself 
by means of catalogues and price lists of bargains 
from London. 

He would not allow his aunts to see what he was 
doing, but promised that when the studio was complete 
they should be invited there to an informal reception 
at which he would play host. His discovery of the 
old curio shop in the town had given him the idea of 
local contributions to his atelier. Bits of good china, 
old brass, old tapestry, quaint bureaux, or chairs, 
these were all to be had on the spot, and at very low 
prices. Not that Christopher troubled his head about 
money. He was possessed of some notes and securi- 
ties, and these he made over to his Aunt Augusta, 
intimating that whatever they represented should be 
paid as income in monthly instalments. Having 
accepted him as an inmate of the house Miss Augusta 
felt equal to anything. His absolute ignorance of 
money matters was an added responsibility, but again 
the trust he reposed in herself was the sort of flat- 
tery to which she was susceptible. As for Miss 
Jane, she adored the boy, and had done so from the 


45 


In Agglestone House 

first moment of introduction, when he had bowed 
like a courtier, and kissed her hand like a gallant of 
the Petit Trianon. 

He paid her charming attentions that were quite 
novel, and murmured pretty compliments as to the 
feathery ringlets, or tapering fingers, which were her 
chief charms. Then, too, he noted any change in 
dress, or millinery, and advised on both like an expert. 
He explained that a friend of his mother’s had been a 
noted modiste of Paris, and that cutting and fitting 
and planning costumes were second nature to him. 

The shock of hearing such things was modified 
by his own unconsciousness of there being anything 
unusual about them. He related facts as simply as 
he explained them, and took for granted that his 
aunts, being women, must feel a feminine interest 
in the frivolities of life — even Parisian life. To his 
credit, however, when he ran off the lines of strict 
propriety, he used French as a vehicle of explanation. 
Much that he related in that tongue was both un- 
translated and — untranslatable. But no one was 
the worse for the anecdotes. His own gravity of 
demeanour gave an impression of strict propriety, 
and Miss Augusta’s French dictionary was happily 
out of date. 

Having made his apology for unpunctuality Christo- 
pher proceeded to give his aunts a sketch of the curio 
shop, the queer old Irishwoman, and the beauty of 
the child. Miss Augusta had but cursory know- 
ledge of Prawle Port, or what she termed the “pur- 
lieus” of the town. Her personal shopping was carried 
on at the more fashionable district of Stourborough, a 
place of palatial boarding-houses, and semi-Londonized 
emporiums, some five or six miles distant. 


4 6 


The Rubbish Heap 

“I love wandering round the old parts of the 
town,” said Christopher. ‘‘That was how I dis- 
covered this curio shop. Which reminds me, my 
dear aunt, that I had no English money to pay for 
my purchase. I promised to return and do that this 
afternoon.” 

“ I cannot at all understand what it is you mean to 
do with these ‘curios,’ as you call them,” said Miss 
Augusta. 

“You will better understand when my studio is 
opened,” he answered. “I must make haste, for I 
want to commence a picture. That child I saw 
today, she will be my model.” 

‘ ‘ Y our model ? ’ ’ Miss Augusta looked uncomfort- 
able. Her idea of models being of something im- 
proper and undraped, not mentioned in polite circles. 
“But, my dear Christopher, I hope you are not think- 
ing of introducing models into this house? I ... I 
really could not permit — that.” 

“But why? What is wrong with the suggestion?” 
asked Christopher. “All artists have the model. 
You must draw from the life if you want your picture 
to be like life. Surely, ma tante, that is known to you ? ’ ’ 

Miss Augusta’s face took on its very primmest 
mid-Victorian expression. “Indeed I know nothing 
of such things,” she said coldly. “Nor do I desire 
to do so. But, of course, if painting is to be your 
profession, Christopher, and you need — ahem — occa- 
sional models, I must trust to your sense of what is 
right and decorous. I only beg you to keep their 
visits as much to yourself as possible. Your Aunt 
Jane and myself will, on our side, ignore these neces- 
sary intruders. Our domestics will be told to do the 
same.” 


47 


In Agglestone House 

Christopher glanced at the sideboard, but the staid 
Tomlinson had already retired. Luncheon was sup- 
posed to be an informal meal. 

“It is a pity there is no escalier derob6 in this man- 
sion,” he observed. “Then the so-virtuous feelings 
of the inmates would suffer no shock. But I assure 
you, my most dear aunt, that models look just like 
everybody else, except when they are posing. Be- 
sides, I do not propose to work on the nude.” 

Miss Augusta rose hastily from her chair, with a 
glance at her sister’s scarlet face. 

Christopher limped to the door, and held it open. 
As they left the room he turned to the table and 
finished his glass of claret. 

“What have they then?” he exclaimed half aloud. 
“Is it true that the English are so easily shocked? 
Yet I said nothing shocking. I suppose they do take 
off their clothes — sometimes? I do know that they 
have a warm bath on Sunday.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, and took out his cigarette 
case. The discreet Tomlinson entered at the same 
moment. 

“Excuse me, sir, but I must remind you that 
the mistress does not allow smoking in the dining- 
room.” 

The boy laughed. “Oh! I was again forgetting. 
Not in the dining-room, or the drawing-room, or one’s 
bedroom, or, for the matter of that, in the house at 
all! What is it that you do, Tomlinson?” 

“I, sir? Oh, I have a quiet pipe of an evening 
in my own pantry.” 

“Bien! I too will have — a pantry, though it will 
be called a studio, ” said Christopher. “A man must 
have a — what is it you say? — a retraite; petit logement 


48 


The Rubbish Heap 

seul. It is absolutely necessary. Ces dames Id, these 
good dear ladies, Tomlinson, they do not understand 
us men, do they?” 

“My mistresses, sir,” said the stately Tomlinson, 
“ are very correct and very particular ladies. I expect 
you will be something of a — well, of a startler, sir; 
just at first. Of course it is to be expected, you being 
brought up in a foreign country, and having no sort of 
acquaintance with English methods, so to say.” 

“Oh, my father had much care that I should be 
brought up in the English ways,” said Christopher. 
“You might see for yourself that I make no mistakes 
when I arrive here. I conform as if ‘to the manner 
born,* as one says. And that reminds me, Tomlinson, 
have you acquaintance of — I should say do you know — 
any one in the old part of this town? One who has 
a strange shop, a what is called marchand d’ occasion — • 
second-hand curios, and things?” 

Tomlinson shook his head. “No, sir. I seldom 
visit the purlieus of the town, so to say. We do our 
household shopping at the Co-operative Stores in 
London, or occasionally get supplies from the town 
of Stourborough, our nearest and most important 
supply district, sir.” 

“Ah, yes! I must go there one day. My aunts 
have spoken of it. A town very fashionable and 
select, so they say. What we call a plage . Au 
bord de la mer , is it not, Tomlinson?” 

“That — I couldn’t say, sir,” replied the butler, 
anxious not to be betrayed into self-committal 
through the medium of foreign phrases. “But 
fashionable — certainly. It has its season, and it has 
its residential population; very good families, I am 
told. We exchange occasional visits, sir. It would 


In Agglestone House 49 

quite repay a little jaunt of your own, sir, if you’re so 
disposed.” 

“Yes, I mean to go over — one day. And so you 
do not know the curio shop here, Tomlinson? nor 
the queer old Irishwoman who keeps it, nor the 
pretty fairy of a child she has adopted? Regard then 
how I, who am so newly arrived here, have learnt so 
much more than yourself!” 

“Yes, sir; exactly, sir. But then I take no interest 
in second-hand things, nor in children either, never 
having been a marrying man, sir, or one concerned 
with females of any sort.” 

Christopher laughed, and then slapped him on the 
back. “Good old Tomlinson, bon gargon of the best! 
It is you and such as you who are the props of the 
British Empire ! ” 

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir. But — not exactly that , 
sir. Otherwise the British Empire would have to be, 
so to say — self-supporting. You missed my point 
I think, sir.” 

Christopher looked at the solemn face, the faint, 
very faint twinkle in the respectable eyes. Then he 
chuckled delightedly. 

“Ah, ha! my Tomlinson, it is that you have humour, 
despite all your stolid pretensions ! Bon ! You and 
I will be great friends I perceive. All the same I 
believe you are what one calls a sly dog, eh, Tom- 
linson?” 

“Oh no, sir! I assure you I was never that. 
Temperamentally indifferent, sir, that’s all. A great 
blessing too, sir, when one holds a responsible position 
in a family like this.” 

“I imagine so, Tomlinson. Yes, certainly it must 
be. There was a vaudeville in a Parisian theatre, 


5« 


The Rubbish Heap 

Tomlinson, called ‘Les Cent-mille Vierges, ’ a 
hundred-thousand virgins; but I believe you would 
have been equal to them, Tomlinson, had you been 
the butler of the establishment!” 

“I don’t know, sir. Being French might make — 
well — a difference — you see, sir.” 

“Yes,” said Christopher gravely, “it might. 
Somehow, Tomlinson, I should very much like to 
see you in Paris.” 

“Thank you, sir. But, speaking for myself, 
London’s quite good enough for me, when I need a 
little change of air. And, now, I must ask you to 
excuse me, sir, if I get on with my work. Though it’s 
very kind of you to have an informal chat with me, 
sir, and a pleasant change, so to say, from the rooting 
of the servants’ hall. Me and the boot-boy being the 
only representatives of our sex in the establishment, 
sir.” 

Christopher laughed again. He had never met 
any one like Tomlinson, and was greatly interested in 
his character and behaviour, both of which might 
have been labelled “correct British traditions.” 

The old butler had also taken quite a fancy to this 
odd foreign youth, who was at once so un-English 
and so irresponsible. He pitied him also for his 
delicacy, which made an effectual barrier between 
himself and others of his age and sex. He would be 
useless at sports or games, but he was an amusing 
conversationalist, and had certainly roused up his 
two maiden aunts to new interests, and a new out- 
look on life. As the stolid old servitor moved to 
and fro, clearing the table, and re-arranging the room, 
that faint twinkle again stole into his eyes. 

“I wonder if he reallv means to do any work in 


5i 


In Agglestone House 

that studio, as he calls it, or if it’s only an excuse 
for — well, for larks, as most young gentlemen indulges 
in? Being brought up to forrin’ ways I should be 
inclined to think there was something spicy behind it 
all. Models — he called them ! ” 


SCENE V 


The Rubbish Heap 

The child, Mara, is sitting on it, with the old 
tattered book in her hand. Christopher, on the 
window-seat is sketching her. 

The Action in the Scene 

On a broken chair, a little apart from the rubbish 
heap, Katty Quirke had taken up the position of 
chaperon; a proceeding possibly induced by occasional 
purchases of works of art representing nymphs and 
goddesses in a garb that only obeyed nature’s 
classic outlines. She was knitting, and talking, the 
one being the proper complement of the other in 
her opinion. 

Christopher’s eyes and senses were too engrossed 
in what he was doing to pay any attention to her. 
But that seemed a matter of indifference. With 
drawn brows, and quick flashing glances, the young 
artist studied his model, or transferred her pose with 
rapid fingers to his cardboard. But he seemed far 
from satisfied. Again and again an exclamation of 
impatience would escape him, and he would rub out 
the lines as hastily as he had drawn them. 

“It’s a quare way you’re working,” remarked 
52 


53 


The Rubbish Heap 

Katty, transferring her needles from “cast on” to 
“cast off.” “Why you seem to undo as much as ye 
do. It’s little progress ye’ll be makin’ that way.” 

Christopher’s impatieni exclamation might have 
represented the French for “Shut up,” but being 
French had no disquieting effect on his critic. 

“There’s one o’ your sort used to be cornin’ here 
years back,” she went on. “He’d stick up a foldin’ 
stand, an’ sit himself down on a wooden stool, an’ 
there he’d be the day long, paintin’ an’ daubin’ a 
square o’ white paper stuff, till you’d wonder at the 
patience av the man. Not what but somethin’ did 
show on it after a week or two. He said ’twas that 
island beyant; meself, I couldn’t be sayin’ it looked 
much like it, but there, those painter fellows, they’d 
be tellin’ lies as fast as a dog would trot! Ye’d know 
what place I’m manin’, sir, for ye can see it quite 
plain from the windy here. A dacint little bit av 
land, an’ no owner but some queer ould antiquarian, 
as fancied havin’ an island all to himself. I’ve niver 
set eyes on him, so mystarious he is. Why should 
any one be wantin’ to live like a Robertson Crusey in 
a lonesome place like that, an’ he wid all the wurrld 
to choose from?” 

“ Cest inferieur — I mean it is no matter. Why 
should we all want to live in the same way ? ” muttered 
Christopher. 

“If it’s a decent, prosperous, God-fearin’ way it 
would be the best way for us to live,” said Katty. 
“An’ if we're to have trouble, why isn’t it best to be 
havin’ it along wid other people who’d be havin’ their 
share av it too? Faith! there’s nothin’ I wouldn’t do 
meself sooner than live lonesome, as that quare, 
respectable man does be livin’.” 


54 


The Rubbish Heap 


“ Do you mean that he stays always on that island 
— by himself?” asked Christopher. 

“ He does; not a wurrd av a lie about it. Whether 
’twas trouble or misfortune as drove him there I 
couldn’t rightly be sayin’. It’s a wonder all the 
same. I’d like to know the rights av it, though I’m 
not one to be curious respectin’ what doesn’t concern 
meself.” 

Christopher, with another impatient exclamation, 
dashed down another failure from his sketch-book. 
“Ah! sacre diable , what has it then? this confounded 
pencil ! P'tite fee , but you have the patience of an 
angel! Once more, I entreat! The head — a little 
more to me — ah, c'est admirable — ga! Un petit 
moment — a little while I beg, and then I have it — at 
last!” 

The tinkle of the shop-bell announced business 
to Katty. She put down her knitting and retreated. 
Christopher, thankful for peace and silence, worked 
vigorously for some five or six minutes. Then he 
looked up. 

“ Ah del ! but I have it now ! Are you tired, Fairy ? 
Of a truth you make a model the most perfect.” 

“No, I am not tired, ” said Mara. “I am glad that 
I have pleased you. I never thought it would be such 
a great trouble to you to make the picture.” 

“The picture! Alas! my child, that is still a long 
way off. But it is something that I have accom- 
plished this: the pose of the figure. Now, sit easily 
for yourself. It is that I try to get the shape of that 
rubbish heap.” 

He put in a few more vigorous strokes and then 
stopped. “ Assez ! For today, it is enough. I can 
do the rest at home. But when I have my atelier 


The Rubbish Heap 55 

furnished, and commence on the canvas, I shall 
require that you come to me — there.” 

“Why would you be wantin’ that?” she asked. 

“Because I cannot bring my easel and paints and 
brushes here,” he said, glancing round the lumber 
room. “Will it occasion much trouble? The house 
is not so far, and my studio, it will be different from 
this.” 

“ Indeed I will come, if you wish me, and Katty does 
not object.” She lifted her soft eyes to his, and, in a 
moment, his Gallic temperament was off on a new 
track. 

“ That look ! Your head like that ! I have another 
inspiration. . . . Wait — one moment!” 

He dashed open the sketch-book, watched by her 
wondering eyes. “Strayed from elf land,” he mut- 
tered, as he filled in the outline. “A lost wander- 
ing spirit. The figure half visionary; misty green 
draperies ; great trees ; darker mountains beyond ! It 
will be a poem. The world will wonder; other 
artists will envy me. ‘ Where did he get that face ? * 
they will say, and I — I shall tell no one. It will be our 
secret, p’tite fee. Look you there — ” and he waved 
the sketch-book excitedly. “We start on the great 
adventure, you and I! Each the other shall help, 
and when I am rich and famous — ” He paused, and 
met her uplifted eyes. 

“We will go to the mountains,” she said. “The 
place from where I came.” 

His pencil stayed its rapid strokes. “The moun- 
tains of Ireland?” he asked. “Is it that you mean? 
To return from where you came?” 

“I would like to be seeing them again, and the 
priest as blessed me, and the holy Sisters, all there in 


56 


The Rubbish Heap 

the lone valley where the convent was. At night I 
do be hearin’ the voices of the singin’, and the bell 
that rang for prayers, and all the holy peace of it 
comes back to me. They said it would, and that I’d 
be wantin’ to return some day.” 

“But you can hardly know yet what your new home 
is like. They are kind to you, is it not?” 

“Kind is it? There’s nothing but kindness in 
this house. Only — all the time — something’s tugging 
at the strings av me heart, and when I sleep there’s 
always that dream.” 

Christopher looked at her, and then at his sketch. 

“You have two aspects, it seems to me. Perhaps 
I shall find more. It was told to me, once, by an 
artist of sorts that to achieve what one calls Fame is 
only a matter of once to impress the public and then to 
continue repeating that impression. It would seem 
that it does not tire of such repetition. At least not 
in this country. It arrives to me therefore, my child, 
that we make a — what does one say? — compact, con- 
tract to each other. You, of your side, will promise 
me one thing. You know what it is — to promise?” 

“I do. It is to give your wurrd, and never to 
break it, though it be ever so hard to keep.” 

“ Exactly. Your word and my Art. But there is a 
condition, on the part of yourself. You must also 
promise to give your face and beauty to no other 
artist. There are many who would like to paint 
pictures of you, and they would give you money 
— much money. I cannot give you anything, 
p'tite fee , except the work of my hands, and the 
inspiration of my brain, such as it is. But I will 
work hard at these two pictures of you. Perhaps, 
I shall send them, one day, to one of those big shows, 


57 


The Rubbish Heap 

like the Salon of Paris, and if they are approved — 
why then — my child, I shall know the purest joy of 
life — achievement !” 

Her serious face met his excited glance, and in the 
uplifted glance he saw yet another picture. His 
brain seemed afire, his lips quivered. He seized her 
hands, so small and white despite rough work, and 
kissed them again and again. 

“The great Adventure,” he repeated. “That is 
Life, when we begin to use it and to know its use. 
And I have begun on — a Rubbish Heap!” He 
laughed gaily. “Is it not as I said — even amidst the 
dust and fragments, choses sans valeurs , one may 
chance to find a jewel of price; I have found mine, 
p'tite fee , and I want to keep it for myself. That, 
of course, sounds very selfish, but Art is selfish, and 
Art is exacting, and I have for long been but a poor 
crippled thing cast aside, disregarded. And I wanted 
to Live , to Be, to Do ... ah del — but how I wanted 
all this— all!” 

The child stood there silent; gravely regarding 
him. The torrent of words rushed over her, not half 
comprehended. But she felt she had pleased him in 
some way, and that they were to be friends, and 
united in some great wonderful exploit of whose 
nature she was ignorant as yet. 

Long after Christopher had left, the child sat on 
in that lumber room, Katty, having gone out to 
attend a sale, leaving bread and milk, and potatoes 
ready for her dinner. But Mara had forgotten all 
about dinner. Curled up on the broad window-seat 
with a book she had found a world of her own, and in 
a dream of pure delight she roamed hither and thither 


58 


The Rubbish Heap 

through its magical landscapes. It was a book of 
fairy tales, the work of that wizard of Faierie, Hans 
Andersen. Tattered and soiled, discarded from some 
nursery as rubbish it now opened its doors to a new 
reader, and for a time set her far apart from the 
ordinary affairs of life. The sorrowful tragedy of 
“The Little Mermaid” was holding her spellbound 
when the loud and angry ringing of the bell below 
brought her back to mundane duties. 

She rose, as if aroused from sleep, and moved to 
the door, and then went slowly down the rickety 
stairs. 

The Scene Changes to the Shop 

In the shop an elderly gentleman was standing, 
his face expressive of impatience. He turned quickly 
as she came through the doorway. “Is everyone 
deaf here!” he exclaimed. “I’ve been ringing this 
bell for the last ten minutes!” 

This was pure exaggeration, but the child was not 
aware of it. 

“Where’s the owner — the, the master of the shop?” 
he went on. “I’ve seen something in the window 
I want. It’s a piece of china. I’ll point it out. A 
bowl. Looks to me like Lowestoft. Here, come 
along and I’ll show it to you!” 

Mara put down her book, and went out into the 
street with him, and he pointed out the beautiful 
old bowl in a corner of the window. 

The child easily got it out, and placed it on the 
counter. He took it up, and examined it with the 
eyes of an expert. Then he turned to Mara. 

“Well, who’s the master of the place?” he de- 
manded. “I’d like to know what he wants for this? ” 


59 


The Rubbish Heap 

“The master’s away sailin’ on his ship,” she 
answered. ‘ ‘ And Katty, who keeps the shop, she’s out, 
I’m thinking. But I can tell you the price of most 
things here, if ye want to know it.” 

“You!” His amazed glance swept over her; the 
golden head, the little serious face, the lovely un- 
childish eyes. “God bless my soul! You — you’re 
only a child! You don’t know anything about the 
prices of curios!” 

She made no answer, but went to a drawer and took 
out from it a long strip of cardboard, marked with 
numbers and figures. Then she took up the bowl 
and compared its mark with something on the sheet. 
“This,” she said, “would be ten pounds,” and she 
set it down on the counter. 

The gentleman took up the bowl again. “Humph! 
It’s genuine, so that’s not so out of the way. Ten? 
You’re sure you couldn’t take less; say eight, now?” 

“I’ve been told only to say what’s the right price, 
sir, ” she answered gravely. “But if you’d be cornin’ 
back this way later on, maybe ye’d see Katty herself, 
and she might give you another price.” 

“I can’t come later on. I don’t often come to the 
town at all. All right, I’ll take it. Can you give 
me a receipt?” 

The child drew a book of printed receipts from 
another drawer, and in slow, precise fashion filled up 
date and price, and signed it. The customer glanced 
at the paper, and then put two £5 notes down on 
the counter. 

“You seem to know your business,” he said. 
“How old are you?” 

“I have twelve years,” she said. “At least it is 
what I’ve been told.” 


6o 


The Rubbish Heap 

4 ‘And where do you come from?” 

“Away over the sea, beyond. Ireland, it is.” 

“Ireland!” His brows contracted suddenly. 
“That awful country. I know it — to my cost!” 

Her surprised glance checked his anger. He took 
up the bowl. 

“The greatest sorrow of my life came to me from 
your land,” he said. “And it’s no wonder I felt 
angry. But — you’re not the sort any one could feel 
anger with. Did I frighten you? ” 

“You did not,” she said calmly. “I could tell 
how it was with you, and the way you’d be feeling, 
because of the sorrow of your heart. But, it was no 
fault of the country, was it, that one who belonged to it 
should have brought you the sad day? That might 
happen to any one, in any place. The good Sisters 
always told me that ’tis Heaven ‘sends our sorrows, 
and our joys; and Heaven is stretched all over the 
wurrld, and where would we get away from it, at all? ” 

“The good Sisters,” he repeated. “That means 
the nuns. You’re a Catholic then ? ” 

“ I don’t rightly know what I am,” she said. 
“ There’s never been any one to care for me but the 
priest and the holy Sisters, and the faith they taught 
is the only true faith. The good God above us, and 
His blessed Son as died for us, and His sorrowful 
Mother as prays for us.” She bent her head with 
grave reverence. 

The strange customer looked at her, and seemed 
on the point of saying something in reply, but checked 
himself again. What could one say to spoil such pure 
thoughts and simple faith? 

“I’ll ... I think I’ll come round some other 
time and talk to you,” he said. “For a knowledge- 


6i 


The Rubbish Heap 

able, straight little dealer, you’d be hard to beat. 
I’m sorry that you’re Irish, all the same.” 

He picked up his bowl, which she had wrapped in 
paper, and with a curt “Good day” left the shop. 

The child stood looking after him with a puzzled 
expression. Then she took up her slip of cardboard 
and put it back in the drawer. As she did this the 
side door opened and Katty came in. 

“There wasn’t a thing in the sale that would be 
w r orth bargainin’ for,” she announced. “An’ that 
ould hay thin of a Jew dealer from Stourborough 
raisin’ the prices on ivry one. I just left him to buy 
his own rubbish. Why are ye in the shop, honey? 
Has any one been?” 

Mara related her success as a saleswoman. Katty 
listened in silence. Her eyes grew wider as the 
recital went on. 

‘ ‘ That bowl ? The one in the corner, by the chipped 
ould jug wid the flowers on it? Glory be! Ten 
pounds ye axed — and got it!” 

“I did,” said Mara simply. “It was marked so 
on the card, and the gentleman, he seemed to think 
it was worth it.” 

“Did he then? Well, well, it’s the quare way they 
scent the rale article, them curio-hunters.” 

She went round the counter, and opened the drawer 
containing the card. Taking it out she ran her eyes 
rapidly over the marks and figures. Then a low 
chuckling laugh escaped her. “I thought ’twas 
quare ! See ye here, child, what way ye’ve been sellin' 
the chaney on me. Ten shillings is what I meant y 
the marks is got a bit confused. An’ ye to be axin’ 
ten pounds — an’ to get it too! Glory be to God! 
it’s you that’s brought the good luck to us, Mara!” 


62 


The Rubbish Heap 

But Mara did not seem to regard the error in quite 
the same way. “Is it a mistake I’m after makin’?” 
she asked. “And how in the wurrld are we to find 
the gentleman, and tell him the rights of it, and 
give him back the money?” 

“Give back, is it?” exclaimed Katty. “Well, the 
likes av that! Is it meself was iver known to give 
back what was once paid to me ! Sure, a bargain’s a 
bargain, an’ if the ould gintleman wanted that chaney 
bowl he’ll not be begrudgin’ the price. I don’t 
rightly remimber what it was I gave for it, but it’s 
bin there, in that windy, for two mortal years, an’ 
only last week I marked it down, an’ now to hear it’s 
fetched ten pounds!” 

She gazed rapturously at the bank-notes, and then 
unlocked the cash box and put them safely away. 

“Sure, whin I tell himself he’ll not be believin’ me. 
’Tis you’re the grand saleswoman, Mara. I may well 
be leavin’ the shop for ye to look after if ye can sell 
the stuff as aisy as this.” 

“But ’twas a mistake I made, and no bargain at 
all, ” said the child distressfully. “And now ye know 
it, Katty dear, ye’ll put the money aside, so that if 
ever the gentleman does come back, I can be tellin’ 
him how it was, and the bowl only worth as many 
shillings, as he paid in pounds?” 

“Indeed, an’ it’s nothin’ av the sort I’ll be doin’!” 
exclaimed the Irishwoman. “A sale’s a sale, an’ a 
bargain’s a bargain, an’ no goin’ back on what’s 
given or taken. That’s business, child; an’ don’t ye 
be lookin’ down yer nose as if ’twas cryin’ ye’d be, 
for it’s not faultin’ but praisin’ ye I am.” 

“I don’t want praise when it’s for wrongdoin’,” 
said the child sadly. “ ’Tis heavy my conscience will 


The Rubbish Heap 63 

be, Katty, and no peace at all until I’m confessed 
an’ forgiven.” 

“Well now, isn’t conscience the great hardship! 
An’ I lettin’ ye into the way av dealin wid the 
customers!” 

“ It’s never another thing I’ll sell unless you promise 
me to return that money to the gentleman, if ever he 
comes back.” 

“Hear that now! An’ I behavin’ like a mother to 
ye. Couldn’t ye look on the contract as a kind o’ 
return for what I’ve given ye to wear an’ to eat? 
What harm will it do a livin’ sowl that the figures 
got themselves mixed up on the card? Seein’ too 
that the customer knew better what was the worth o’ 
that bowl than either you or meself. The ways av 
this trade o’ mine are always chancey, more or less. 
Sometimes ’tis I that do be givin’ more for a thing 
than iver it will fetch me back, an’ others ’tis more 
I gets than iver I gave. Don’t ye be thinkin’ any 
wrong av what ye’ve done, child, an’ no need for 
the priest to hear it either. How would we live at all, 
an’ no profit cornin’ out o’ me work? Give ye heed 
to me now; just put the whole thing out o’ yer pretty 
head, an’ don’t be bringin’ it against me that I’m 
covetous, or hard dealin’; for I’m not, an’ ’tis well- 
known av me. There, run along, an’ get to yer books. 
I left yer dinner in the kitchen, out there. Did ye 
have it yet?” 

“I did not want any dinner.” 

“An’ why not? Ye can’t be livin’ on air. Wasn’t 
the meal to yer likin’? There was good white bread, 
an’ milk, an’ purtaties, an’ that’s more than they’d 
be givin’ ye where ye come from, that I’ll take me 
oath!” 


64 


The Rubbish Heap 

Mara said nothing. She could not express that her 
whole soul was in sudden revolt. That to eat food 
bought and paid for by such dishonest means as 
Katty Quirke had explained as her “trade, ” was 
abhorrent to her simple ideas of right and wrong. 
But she had no arguments to bring against the shrewd 
reasoning of the old curio-dealer, and so took refuge 
in silence, and a secret determination to confess her 
mistake if ever that customer returned to the shop. 

Katty looked upon the silence as submission, and- 
dropped the subject for the time. But she was con- 
scious of being judged and disapproved, and the con- 
sciousness left an odd uncomfortable feeling behind it. 
Still, as far as trade instincts and knowledge were 
concerned she knew herself in the right. For once 
that a customer paid too much for a thing there were 
a hundred times when he paid not half enough. Times 
when a piece of real old Chippendale, or some genuine 
Lowestoft or Worcester or old Chelsea would pass 
from the dealer’s hands, in ignorance of its real value, 
and fetch three or four times its original price at a 
London sale. She gave a shrewd guess at the pur- 
chaser of the Lowestoft bowl, putting him down as one 
of those London experts who came prowling round the 
country on the scent of bargains, sure that his £10 
would mean £20 at Christie’s, if the bowl was put up 
there. 

She had really forgotten that she had it in stock. 
Its discovery and sale were subjects of wonder and 
congratulation. It seemed a little hard that they 
should be viewed so differently by Mara, or stand 
out as subjects for priestly advice in the confessional. 
Katty was not given to a too frank revelation of her 
own doings on such occasions as her duty demanded. 


65 


The Rubbish Heap 

She made confession of trivialities to an extent that 
severely taxed the patience of Father O’Farrell, but 
none knew better than herself how to guard what she 
termed her own business. As she bustled about the 
kitchen, putting away the child’s untasted meal, 
she told herself that it might be as well to keep her 
at home on the forthcoming Sunday. A book would 
always bribe her to do anything. 

“A book to be readin’, an’ that ould lumber room 
for a parlour, an’ sure she’s as happy as a queen! 
It would be a pity an’ she got the ear av his Reverence 
on this matter av the ten pounds. He has a great 
character for strict dealin’. He’s nigh as hard as 
Michael himself. It’s a poor trade I’d be havin' 
this day av I listened to the likes o’ thim!” 
s 


SCENE VI 


The Atelier , or Studio , of Christopher Agglestone. A 
Week Later 

The walls of the room have been white-washed, and 
the deal boards of the floor stained a dark oak colour. 
A few rich-hued rugs are thrown down upon it. Some 
quaint Sheraton chairs and an old gate-table are 
in the centre. On a divan, heaped with cushions, a 
guitar has been thrown down. Sketches and engrav- 
ings are hung at intervals upon the walls. A brass 
bowl of flowers stands on the table. A large easel 
supporting a canvas is near the window, on the broad 
low sill of which lie a mass of brushes on a copper 
tray, and one or two boxes of colours. In a corner 
by the fireplace stands a small oak table, on which is a 
work-basket, and some fragments of silk and gauze. 
On a chair close by it a mass of filmy green muslin 
has been flung down. A stand for models has been 
pushed into a corner with some Eastern-looking 
drapery thrown across it. The whole room would 
seem bizarre to any but an artist. Yet it has a re- 
pose and meaning quite in keeping with its dedication 
to Art. A cheery wood fire burns in the old- 
fashioned grate. 

The Action in the Scene 

Christopher turned from his easel, sighed, and then 
threw down his paint brush. The light was fading 
66 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 67 

in the western sky; splashes of gold were flung across 
the shining floor. 

“ I can do no more today, ” he said. “And what I 
have done — that seems to me as far as ever from what 
I see. It is all no use without her. She must come 
here, and pose for me. Mesdames mes tantes , cannot 
surely object.” 

He glanced at the clock on the wooden mantelshelf. 

“It is at hand! The hour of the five-o’clock. 
They will be soon here, as invited. I wonder what 
they will think of my atelier ?” 

A knock at the door came as conclusion to his 
soliloquy. It was followed by the entrance of Tom- 
linson, and a plump red-cheeked kitchen maid, who 
seemed overwhelmed with shyness. Tomlinson bore 
a silver tray, with the necessary tea equipage. The 
shy and blushing maiden carried another tray, heaped 
with cakes and bread and butter, and what the French 
term “ petits fours .” 

“Ah, my good Tomlinson, you are exacte as the 
clock! Put it there, on that table. Mais — what 
then? What have we here ? ” 

“ That is the spirit kettle and stand, sir. If you 
will permit me I will infuse the tea when your aunts 
arrive. I know the quantity and the duration of 
time for it to draw. Miss Augusta, sir, is most 
particular about her tea.” 

“That is well known to me, my good Tomlinson. 
It seems to be a habit of the English people, this 
meal. In France we have it not — as yet.” 

“Every nation has its — peculiarities, sir,” said 
Tomlinson. Then his eyes fell on a vision of giggling 
imbecility, representative of the kitchen’s introduction 
to the studio. 


68 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Cherry,” he said sternly, “put down that tray 
and shut your mouth — instantly!” 

The girl obeyed his order with a celerity that was 
startling. She banged down the tray, and the noise 
throwing her into further confusion she whipped 
up her apron, and tried to stifle her emotion. The 
result was evident in the heightened crimson of her 
face, and a series of odd duckings which the apron 
could not suppress. 

“Cherry?” observed Christopher. “A pretty 
name. It would seem to suit one so round and rosy. 
I have not her acquaintance yet, have I, Tomlinson?” 

“Back kitchen, sir,” said the butler, with another 
warning glance. “Vegetables, knives, and such like 
duties. Not in the upper regions of the establishment 
at all, sir. But it being the housemaid’s afternoon 
out, and the cook having a slight rheumatic trouble, 
which makes stairs trying, I told this girl to bring up 
the second tray. If I might suggest something, sir, 
and if you are intending to make a — a habit of this 
sort of entertainment, well, I would keep the appli- 
ances upstairs. Quite easy to have cups and plates 
in that cupboard, sir, and a kettle handy on the hob 
of that grate. Seems just the old-fashioned sort of 
thing to suit the room, sir.” 

“Tomlinson, you are a genius! And you talk 
like — like an archbishop. I wish I could, what one 
says, express myself as well as you do. Perhaps, in 
time it will come; what say you?” 

“You have had the disadvantage of being brought 
up in a foreign country you see, sir. Cherry, leave off 
clattering those plates, and go downstairs and fetch 
the matches. I have forgotten them.” 

“Oh, I have matches here,” said Christopher. 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 69 

‘‘Do not give her the trouble of descending all the 
long stairs again. What has she then, that she makes 
always that noise of mirth?” 

“ I think she’s a bit took about all this, sir, and . . . 
you yourself, sir, in that velvet dressing- jacket. But 
I will give her a talkin’ to in the servants’ hall, sir, 
and see that it doesn’t occur again. Go off now, you 
giggling piece of stupidity ! ” he added sternly. “And 
when you bring the hot cakes, put them on that stand 
outside the door. I’ll fetch them in. Disgracing 
the establishment, and before a foreign gentleman too ! 
You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” 

“You are hard on her, Tomlinson, ” said Christopher, 
as a print skirt, and ill-balanced cap disappeared 
swiftly through the door. “She has her good points, 
though she does, what you call — giggle. I could 
make a picture of her, I think.” 

“I shouldn’t, sir,” said Tomlinson disapprovingly. 
“Giggles not being exactly paintable subjects, it 
seems to me, sir. And as for looks — well, I don’t 
put myself up for a judge of the female sex, sir, but 
there wasn’t much beauty going around when Cherry 
Menlove was thought of, I should say, sir.” 

Christopher laughed, and then moved to the table 
and began to superintend its arrangements. 

“ It looks all very comme ilfaut, is it not, Tomlinson? 
The room, I mean, and the — the accessories. I hope 
they — my aunts — will approve?” 

Tomlinson’s eyes took in general effects, and then 
came back to the tea table. “Very nice indeed, sir. 
A little bizzar, as they say, sir, but, of course, that is 
to be expected in an artist’s studio. It is certainly a 
change from the dull old attic that it used to be, sir.” 

“Of a truth yes, it is that,” said Christopher* 


70 


The Rubbish Heap 

“And I feel I shall work here; perhaps I shall do 
something great. ’ ’ 

“ May I ask if — that — is meant to be a picture, sir?” 
asked Tomlinson, looking critically at the blurred 
outline on the easel. 

“ Of course it is. But I only just commence on the 
idea. There will be a room, a queer old lumber room, 
dusty, full of vieilleries, and the light from the win- 
dow, it will strike that heap of rubbish in the centre, 
and the figure of a child sitting on it, as I saw her, 
reading from a tattered old book. Do you see 
it, Tomlinson? What think you of the idea?” 

“Well, sir, since you ask my opinion, I don’t think 
much of it — as a subject. Of course there’s no know- 
ing how a real artist can treat a little fancy of his own, 
but if it was a question of buying a picture, sir, I 
shouldn’t put my money down for a lumber room 
and a ragged child. I’d like something more cheerful, 
sir. A handsome drawing-room and a beautiful lady, 
or one of those classic subjects, sir, such as they have 
in an art gallery — ‘Venuses of Milers,’ I think 
they’re called.” 

Christopher laughed. “You don’t expect me to 
paint Venuses — here — under the so respectable roof- 
tree of my dear respectable aunts? Mon Dieu! 
But what an idee farouche! No, I am going to institute 
a simple and domestic line of art, Tomlinson. Eng- 
land is different altogether from Paris, or from Spain 
either. I know them both. So I shall take a model of 
the most simple. You will see how it will make appeal 
to the public taste. I create her first, and I shall go 
on creating her as did Greuze his so exquisite children, 
and Rubens his plump Dutch Venuses!” 

“Yes, sir, exactly, sir. I know nothing about Art, 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 71 

as I told you, but I hope you will succeed as you 
expect. It will take up a great deal of time, will it 
not, sir?” 

“That — of course. Art is a cruel and exacting 
mistress, but she repays one at last for all that she 
has exacted. I do not want to be a mere palette 
scraper, Tomlinson. I want to make for myself a 
name, an independence.” 

“You have my best wishes, sir, I’m sure. But, if 
you will excuse me, sir, I think I hear Cherry arriving 
with the hot cakes, and — your aunts also.” 

He withdrew to the door, and opened it with a 
flourish. The two Miss Agglestones came wonder- 
ingly in. They stood for a moment and glanced 
round the transformed room as if questioning its 
identity with the dingy old attic of former times. 
Christopher advanced, and held out a hand to each. 

“Welcome, my dear aunts, to the abode of Art! I 
trust you will honour me often, once you have been 
introduced to this atelier de luxe , for whose possession 
I give you my most grateful thanks.” 

“It is quite — transformed,” said Miss Augusta, 
her eyes ranging from the floor to the walls, and 
thence to the oak-beamed ceiling, the easel in the 
window, the rugs and tapestries, and the queer flat 
divan in its corner by the fire. 

“Oh! but I think it is beautiful!” chirped Miss 
Jane, advancing farther, and then running like a 
pleased child from one part of the room to another. 
“How clever of you, dear Chris, to do all this! I 
can’t imagine how you could think of it. I’m sure I 
never could. And is this your painting? Dear me, 
how — how queer it looks!” 

She stood before the easel contemplating the lines 


7 2 


The Rubbish Heap 

and angles and smudges that represented Christopher’s 
work. Her sister joined her and looked equally 
puzzled. 

“I suppose we are quite ignorant people in your 
estimation, Christopher, but, really, is that intended 
for a picture?” 

“But yes, certainly. One has always to wash in 
one’s subject first, and then to get the colour on it. 
But never mind my painting, dear aunt. It is not 
possible to form of it an idea — as yet. Will you not 
sit down, and have some tea. I see it is ready.” 

The two ladies came slowly to the table, and 
seated themselves. Miss Augusta at the tea-tray, 
and her sister opposite. 

“I think Tomlinson may go now,” said their host. 
“I shall do myself the pleasure to wait on you for this 
occasion. I feel greatly honoured.” 

“You have prepared quite a feast,” said Miss 
Augusta, as the door closed. ‘‘Why did you take so 
much trouble? You know we only have bread and 
butter, or a slice of cake with our tea.” 

‘‘But this is an occasion of a little fete to inaugurate 
my atelier He seated himself beside his younger 
aunt, and smiled at her puzzled face. “ If it was that 
I was in Paris there would be other students, and 
possibly a model or two, and it is wine we would 
drink, or maybe a bock , not tea as this.” 

“And what about your painting, Christopher?” 
asked Miss Augusta, handing him his cup. ‘ ‘ Have you 
any decided style? I mean there is landscape, and 
figure painting, is there not?” 

“My dear aunt, I have the joy to inform you that 
I have found myself at last ! I shall be a painter of a 
new and simple school. That, bien entendu , is my 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 73 

role. If I achieve success — well, then all is well. 
I am content. I shall work hard, my good aunts, and 
I shall not be a burden upon your generosity. I have 
it well arranged, I assure you. But for the time, I 
make haste slowly, as one says, and I entreat that you 
have patience.” 

He handed the dainty confectionery to his Aunt 
Augusta, who declined it, but Miss Jane accepted 
with a zest that atoned for her sister’s brusque 
rejection. 

“ Delicious, ” she murmured. “I don’t know where 
you could have got them, Christopher. Surely not 
in the town?” 

“No. I have taken myself to Stourborough in the 
train. Why is it that the tramway stops just when 
one would say it should go on?” 

“That is a question for the authorities,” said 
Miss Augusta, setting down her tea-cup. “The 
municipal council of Stourborough and the municipal 
authorities of our town are always in dispute over 
the matter. Not that it matters to us, because we 
always take the carriage. But I believe there is 
much grumbling and complaining on the part of the 
middle and working class, who have not the time to 
spare for the journey, or the means for continuing 
it by omnibus, or cab.” 

“Of a truth I saw some queer sorts of vehicles on 
my route, ” said Christopher. “There was one like a 
Sedan-chair, with a horse buckled between the shafts. 
Never have I seen quite so amusing a sight.” 

“Bath-chair, you mean,” said Miss Augusta. 
“Yes, I know them. They are peculiar to the place, 
and much used by invalids. Stourborough is a 
resort for invalids you must know, Christopher; in 


74 


The Rubbish Heap 

the winter, that is to say. The doctors have discovered 
that its climate is of value in cases of pulmonary 
complaints.” 

“We must take you with us next time we drive in, ” 
said Miss Jane. “I suppose you didn’t see the sea, 
or the pier, did you?” 

“But no, I have not been informed that there was 
any sea near the town. Pas si mal that town. Is 
there a theatre there?” asked Christopher suddenly. 

“There is,” said Miss Augusta, refilling her cup. 

“If it was that I wished to visit the theatre, and 
see a performance, I suppose I could find a train to 
bring me home,” he observed. 

“Are you fond of the theatre?” askedMiss Augusta. 
“My sister and I only attend a performance of 
Shakespeare, or one of the good old comedies, such as 
The Rivals , or The School for Scandal. We do not 
believe in the modern drama. It has a frivolous or 
indecorous tendency that our dear parents would 
never have approved.” 

“Is it then that you still regulate your lives on what 
your parents have approved ? ” questioned Christopher, 
in surprise. “I. . . moi y I should have thought that 
you were of an age of discretion, and could make rules 
for yourselves.” 

“We could do so, of course,” said Miss Augusta 
primly, “but we were brought up to consider our 
parents as wise and far-seeing guardians. We do not 
forget what they advised, nor do we think our own 
judgment superior.” 

Christopher looked from the solemn visage of his 
eldest aunt to the suppressed and plaintive face of the 
younger. 

“ But how they are queer, ces vieilles filles anglaises! ’ * 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 75 

lie thought to himself. “I would give much to rouse 
them up, as one says. To teach them a truer meaning 
of life than they have yet learnt, or are likely to learn 
in this so repressed existence.” 

The entrance of Tomlinson to light the lamp, 
and remove the tea things, made a momentary diver- 
sion. Miss Jane, with bird-like twitters of curiosity, 
flitted about the room; lifting a piece of tapestry, 
examining a Botticelli on the wall, or a bit of china on 
a bracket ; reading the titles of a collection of French 
novels, and finally bringing herself to anchor before 
the work-table and work-basket. 

“Are these things yours, Christopher?” she asked. 
“What in the world do you want with needles and 
cottons and — a thimble I do declare, and . . . good 
gracious ! patterns! ’ ’ 

She took up a flimsy sheet of paper and shook it 
into shape. It bore some resemblance to a dress, 
and appeared to have come from a French fashion 
magazine on the table. 

“ Mais oui ; it is the pattern of a robe, ga, ” explained 
Christopher, advancing. “Not quite of the present 
mode I fear, for I brought that Monde Elegant from 
Paris. Still — ” he glanced from her figure to the 
pattern, and then deftly placed it against her thin 
shoulders. “ Bien, it is not so bad! I could cut you 
out a robe from this pattern, chere tante, that would 
have quite the impress of Paris, if you would permit.” 

“ You! gasped Miss Jane. “You — could cut out a 
dress — from that pattern!” 

“Even so. I could almost cut out one without a 
pattern. I am — that is I mean I have — a — what one 
calls a flair — for dress, and style, that is almost genius. 
One has offered me, in Paris there, a post in a famous 


76 


The Rubbish Heap 

atelier des modes if so I would accept. But the call of 
Art forbade me. I reserve myself to work only on 
the costumes of my models. Still it is that I could 
make you quite beautiful and young, chere tante , 
if you would so permit.” 

Miss Jane gave vent to an hysterical gasp. Of all 
the queer and amazing things done, or suggested by 
this amazing nephew, nothing seemed so extraordinary 
as this suggestion of ‘ ‘ dressmaking. ’ ’ There had been 
vague rumours in the world of fashion about men- 
dressmakers, and “Ladies’ tailors,” but she had 
scarcely believed in them. Yet, according to this 
boy, they existed already in Paris, and might possibly 
even adventure across the Channel and invade English 
establishments. She hurriedly wriggled out of the 
folds of paper he had pressed against her, and made a 
gesture of denial. 

“Oh no, no! I couldn’t indeed! I wouldn’t 
dream of such a thing. I have had the same fitter to 
make and try on my dresses ever since I was seventeen, 
and really, my dear Chris, I can’t believe you are 
anything but joking.” 

“I am perfectly serious, ma tante,” he said, folding 
the flimsy paper into its original lines. “ I have made 
robes , many times, for my mother or her friends. 
You see she taught me to sew when I was a child, 
because I was then so delicate and must stay so much 
chez moi. But to cut out and shape, that is to me a 
natural instinct. If you do not believe my word I 
will soon show you.” 

“Oh no, no! Indeed, Chris, I could not allow of 
such a thing!” she repeated in dismay, as she shrank 
back from the table. 

“Allow — what?” exclaimed Miss Augusta, advanc- 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 77 

in g from a prolonged study of the engravings, which 
had proved more inoffensive in subject than she had 
anticipated. 

Miss Jane blushed painfully. “Oh! — nothing, 
nothing; only a suggestion of Christopher’s.’ 7 

“I see no need to be ashamed of it, ma tante , ” 
said the boy. “One has fingers, eyes; taste for style, 
for figure, for the tout-ensemble of a chic toilette. That 
is also a gift of Art in its way.” 

“What on earth have you got there?' 1 demanded 
Miss Augusta, pointing to the open work-basket. 
“Don’t tell me you really sew , Christopher!” 

“But yes, what is there so strange in that? I 
have made these cushions, and covered that divan, 
and I go now to work on the costume of my model. 
Regard then!” 

He took up a length of pale sea-green muslin, 
transparent, and soft as a cobweb. “This — I have 
the good chance to procure in the town beyond, when 
I make there my expedition. It was a veritable 
treasure to discover. Voyez done , the colour and the 
texture. I study to paint this before I drape it 
round the child. Ah! you should see that child, my 
aunts! Beautiful as a fairy vision, so she is, and 
that is how I wish to paint her. ‘A Vision of Falrie.’ 
A lost one that has strayed from the dark mountains, 
and knows not how to get back to her people.” 

He rattled on with rapid words and gestures, hav- 
ing lost all sense of time and place in an eager desire 
to explain this vision. 

His two aunts stood side by side, unable to stem the 
torrent, and equally unable to understand it. But 
what they had understood seemed sufficiently shock- 
ing. A young man who could do needlework, and 


78 


The Rubbish Heap 

cut out dresses from a pattern, and who seriously pro- 
posed to make up his model’s drapery from a piece of 
transparent muslin ! It was really awful for two stolid 
British maiden ladies to hear of such things, and to be 

asked to accept them seriously. If this was Art 

The door opened suddenly. Tomlinson stood there, 
and behind Tomlinson a fluttering skirt showed, and 
then a little figure, wrapped in a scarlet cloak, with 
the hood framing her pale face and wide astonished 
eyes. 

“If you please, sir, this — ” he coughed, and then 
hurried on. “She came to the back door, sir, and said 
she was sent to see you, and would I bring her to you. 
So — well, here she is, sir!” 

He moved aside, and the child came slowly into 
the centre of the room. Her eyes wandered over its 
beauty, and its wonders, and then came back to the 
owner, who was only intent on a third study to be 
named “Surprise.” 

“’Twas Katty bade me come, sir,” she said, drop- 
ping a curtsey to the company in general. “ I was to 
say that Daddy Mike has come back with his ship, 
and he’ll not be willing that I do be coming here on 
Monday, as you said I was to come. ” 

“But why? What for does he object?” demanded 
Christopher. Then he added softly, “This, my aunts, 
is my little model for the Fairie picture.” 

Miss Augusta and Miss Jane stared in surprise at 
the lovely little face, from which the scarlet hood 
had fallen back. 

I do not know what it is he has against you, ” she 
answered Christopher. “ But Twas angry he seemed. ” 
“But he must consent!” exclaimed the boy. “I 
must paint you ! I have commenced already on the 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 79 

study. It is there — ” and he waved his arm towards 
the easel. “Perhaps it is that he demands payment? 
Did he say so? I am, of course, willing to pay so 
much the hour, as one does at the studios for one’s 
model. ” 

“He said no wurrd of any money,” answered 
Mara. “Nor would he be tellin’ me any more than 
just what I’m after sayin’ to you. And so, as t’was 
Monday you had fixed for me to be cornin’ here, 
Katty told me to run round and say just how it was. ” 

“Perhaps if I called — if I saw this man myself?” 
said Christopher. But Miss Augusta now took charge 
of affairs and pushed him aside. “Come here, little 
girl, ” she said. “Tell me who you are, and if you go 
to school, and who it is that objects to your coming 
here, as a model for my nephew?” 

‘ ‘ Who I am — is it ? ” said the child. * ‘ That is what 
I don’t rightly know myself, but Daddy Mike has 
took the care of me, and it’s him I’ve got to mind now. 
I go to no school, but I was taught once in the Convent, 
at the place where I lived before I crossed the seas 
and came here. And as for bein’ a model, if it’s the 
painting of me for pictures you would be meanin’, 
well, ’tis the young gentleman there that fixed it 
all up, and sorry I am that I’m not to come to this 
beautiful room. The Holy Mother herself hadn’t 
one as could be named with the same breath. ” 

“Would you like to have your picture painted?” 
asked Miss Jane. 

“I would like anything that would please the young 
gentleman, for it’s very kind to me he was, and I lone- 
some and sad in the strange house and the strange 
days. ” 

“Well then, I see no reason why this man you call 


8o 


The Rubbish Heap 

‘Daddy Mike’ should object,” exclaimed Miss 
Augusta. “He’s not your real father I infer, from 
what you said?” 

“ There’s neither father nor mother belongin’ to me, 
ma’am. I’m just nobody, as far as I know. ” 

“Poor child!” exclaimed Miss Jane involuntarily, 
carried into betrayal of sympathy by the beauty 
and simplicity of so strange a visitor. 

Mara looked round the room. “ ’Tis all very grand 
and beautiful, ” she said softly. “And I’d have been 
so happy to be cornin’ here.” 

“But you shall come!” cried Christopher impetu- 
ously. “Dear my Aunt, you will help me in this 
matter, is it not? You see now that a model is not 
at all what you have supposed, and that to paint from 
life what is simple and holy cannot but uplift one’s 
soul. This child came to me, even as to you, as the 
revelation of a quaint and beautiful nature, pure as 
the snowdrops that lift their heads above the snow. 
I see her as a thing of light, and air, and spirit. Who 
is this rough tyrant that he should step between me 
and my Art, and forbid its natural outpouring?” 

“Do not excite yourself, my dear nephew,” said 
Miss Augusta. ‘ ‘ There may be other — models — to be 
had, even if this one should fail you.” 

“Oh no, no! nothing like her! You do not know 
the mystery and mastery of Art, my most dear aunt. 
How a subject, a thought, an idea seizes one, holds 
one powerless with desire to transcribe it ! There has 
come to me not one but two such inspirations. I see 
two pictures on my canvas yonder that to you is only 
a blank. It is cruel that I should be thrown from 
dreams of glory into dull despair!” 

He was wildly excited, and his aunts, who had 


Christopher Agglestone’s Studio 81 

never seen him, or any one else, in such a mood, 
were at a loss how to take it. 

He came to their assistance by a sudden declaration 
that he would go at once and beard in his own den 
this lion of opposition. He must be made to hear 
reason. To learn that in the sacred cause of Art 
all is excusable ; nothing impossible. 

The two sensible decorous mid-Victorian spinsters 
were thrown off their mental balance by such declara- 
tions. Life, since Christopher’s arrival, had been 
more or less a disturbance, but though Miss Augusta 
disliked being disturbed, and professed a distaste for in- 
novations of any sort, she felt in her secret heart that 
new interests had come into the drab sunless days of 
Agglestone House. This boy was unlike anything she 
had pictured. He was charming, capricious, talented, 
unusual. And he was the only living relative they 
possessed, Jane and herself. His freak for painting, 
his arrangement of this studio, all seemed to convey 
that this new home was to be the centre of his interests. 
His very oddities endeared him to her primly regulated 
mind. And, now, something quite outside and apart 
threatened an overthrow of all his plans. It would 
never do. 

With a vigorous effort she turned her attention to 
the matter in hand. “Very well, Christopher, go home 
with the child, and try to persuade this sea-faring 
man that he is behaving very selfishly. I should like 
to find out who she is, and where she came from. 
Gain what information you can, my dear nephew, and 
I will do my best to help you. ’’ 

Miss Jane had listened to all this in amazement. 
She could not understand her sister, though she also 
felt the curious attraction of this wonderful child. 


6 


82 


The Rubbish Heap 

But having yielded even more readily to the fascina- 
tions of Christopher she was secretly overjoyed at 
her sterner sister’s subjugation. 

Thus the inauguration of the studio ended in a 
somewhat unexpected fashion. The two sisters 
retired to their own sitting-room, and Christopher, 
seizing his hat and stick, went back to the curio shop 
with Mara. 


AN INTERLUDE 


Art and Prejudice 

Youth and artistic sensibilities were to set 
themselves against the crude dogged jealousy of an 
adversary. 

The battle-field was a mean one regarded from the 
point of “artistic sensibilities, ” and the adversary 
did not look so formidable as his own declaration. 
After the first preliminaries Youth resolved to trust 
to the same tactics which had succeeded in winning 
both favour and appreciation from a more difficult 
quarter. The flush of that success was still with him. 
It gave dignity to his frail figure, lit the fires of triumph 
in his eyes, and relaxed the faun-like mouth into 
a faint crooked smile. Straight up to the adversary 
he marched, hand in hand with the scarlet-clad Red 
Riding Hood, who was the cause of conflict. 

“I have the honour to greet you, monsieur. I have 
learnt of your exploits of the sea. I have enough of 
the British blood in my veins to appreciate what one 
calls the Heart of Oak. Permit, monsieur, that I 
shake you by the hand. ” 

Michael Quirke, rough seaman and honest man, 
first stared, then laughed, then gave his hard horny 
fist into the grasp of those delicate fingers. 

“Sure, an’ I take it kindly of you, sir, to be say in* 
83 


8 4 


The Rubbish Heap 

such fine things to a poor seafarin’ man, which is 
what I am. And where did ye find the child? She 
slipped out on me an hour since, an’ I wonderin’ what 
had chanced to her. ” 

“She — she came to see me,” said the youth. “I 
regret that she brought me some news not too wel- 
come. I have now come here to — what one says — 
have it out. I am sure, monsieur, I can explain the 
matter to you and win the permission I crave. ” 

“Well, ye’re a great talker any way,” said the old 
captain. “Maybe I haven’t got the rights av the 
story yet. But I tell you straight, I’ll have no child 
o’ mine trapesing about these streets an’ takin’ herself 
to a gentleman’s paintin’ room for him to be soilin’ 
of her sowl wid thim daubs o’ things as is called 
pictures!” 

This was a startling view of Art. The young artist 
felt as if some brutal hand had torn aside the exquisite 
drapery of a goddess, and given the physical delinea- 
tion of the medical student to its marble anatomy. 

He sat down opposite his adversary. 

“Ah, monsieur, I feel that you have not well under- 
stood what is Art!” he exclaimed. “Never, I assure 
you, is there any intention on the part of myself 
to traduce the beauty and spirituality of your — ad- 
opted — daughter. For so I am informed she is. But 
I do not wish to go against your authority. You must 
understand I have the consent of madame, your wife; 
also that of my most respected aunts, those ladies of 
the Great House. Again — what I desire to paint is 
no more sacrilegious, than any pictured semblance of 
a saint, or a madonna. I take it that you are bon 
Catholique, monsieur, like all your countrymen. Flow 
think you that those images you adore, those faces, 


85 


Art and Prejudice 

and figures of your chapels and cathedrals, come to 
adorn your walls, and inspire your adoration? How? ” 

“Well, it’s not for me to say,” answered Michael 
Quirke, “not bein’ given to chapel-goin’, though I keep 
my dues, an’ go to mass of a Sunday, if I’m stayin’ 
long enough in the town. ” 

“But you have made great voyages? You have 
visited strange countries. Surely, somewhere, you 
have seen such pictures as I have described?” 

“Well, an’ if I have, what has that got to do with 
the child here? For ’tis no saint but some haythin 
image that herself was tellin’ me of.” 

“Haythin image?” muttered the astonished boy. 
He turned and looked at the little figure by the fire- 
place, her scarlet cloak hanging from her arm; her eyes 
gravely questioning the arbiters of her fate. 

“But, monsieur, I do not understand. My picture 
— what I have designed in my mind — it is of a strayed 
and wandering fairy, lost on the mountains. This 
child seemed to me as if my vision had come to life. 
What is the harm if I paint on my canvas that vision 
she has inspired? I assure you, monsieur, that no 
lady of the land would meet with greater respect. 
Mesdames my aunts, they would also assure you of 
that. Ah! If you would only see them, as they 
desire? I bring you that invitation, myself.” 

“Invitation? Is it goin’ to the Great House I’d be? 
How would that serve any purpose, though ’tis an 
honour they’d be puttin’ on me, or they’d think it 
was.” 

“They have seen the little girl tonight, and — they 
think you should not make these objections against 
me. And see you, monsieur, I have already com- 
menced my picture. It would be cruel and unjust 


86 


The Rubbish Heap 

that I suffer for— what one calls a— whim, a scruple. 
Art is my livelihood, monsieur, as the sea is yours. I 
am not strong and capable as others of my age, and 
yet I do not wish to live on the bounty of my aunts, 
those good ladies of whom all speak so well.” 

“What is it you’re meanin’ to do wid the picture, if 
’tis made?” demanded Michael Quirke. 

“ I shall send it to some Art show. Then, if accepted, 
it would be hung, and people will see it, and perhaps 
one — will desire its purchase. ” 

“And you’d be sellin’ her for dirty money? Selim* 
the lovely face, an’ swate innocence as is makin’ the 
joy and pride o’ my soul ? ” His voice was stormy ; his 
eyes flashed. The little girl involuntarily crept nearer 
the youth as if alarmed. 

Christopher Agglestone was not alarmed, but 
amazed. Never in his queer ups and downs and 
experiences had he heard Art derided as a means of 
livelihood. 

“It is that , then, to which you make objection,” he 
stammered. “Not that she should be my model 
but that the world outside of us should pay me for 
what she represents? But, my good friend, have 
reason I pray you. In this world one must live; to 
live one must work; to work is to receive the tribute 
of payment. You, of your part, know what your 
trade is to you and, madame your wife, she too knows 
what this, her business, means to her. Why, then, 
should you grudge me that I earn the poor wage of an 
unknown artist? Is it fair, monsieur, is it just?” 

Put like this, it seemed very unjust. Michael 
Quirke, in his first indignation, had not considered 
any point of view but his own. Now, his common 
sense and natural kind-heartedness were brought to 


87 


Art and Prejudice 

book and he felt a little ashamed. Still, a certain 
strata of Celtic obstinacy held back acknowledgment. 

“My dear young man, it’s not yer wage that I’d 
begrudge you. Make it an’ take it as best ye can. 
But ye can get faces and figures for models anywhere 
in this town. On the Quay there, or wherever ye 
choose to look for them. An’ mothers there be in 
plenty as would sell the very hair off their girleens’ 
heads for money. Why couldn’t ye be takin up wid 
one o’ thim, instead of Mara here?” 

Christopher shook his head. “No one that ever I 
have seen has a face like hers, or such a glory of hair 
as frames it. Ah ! monsieur, I beg, I entreat that the 
arrangement may stand ! If it is money that you ask, 
be sure that you shall have it; any sum of reason, 
but ” 

“Money!” thundered the old seaman. “Don’t 
ye be mintionin’ money to me in the same breath as 
this holy child! Under my roof she’s come, an’ a 
blessin’ she’s bringin’ to me lonely hearth, an’ I will 
not barter a smile av her eyes, or a hair av her golden 
head for all the money you, or yer ladies av the Great 
House could be offerin’ me!” 

Then Christopher smiled, the wonderful disarming 
smile that had melted the crust of years and discipline 
in one instance, and now essayed its magic in another. 

“Ah. monsieur ! How I honour you for those words ! 
Accept, I pray, my best thanks. Now it is that I 
know what has hurt that great strong British soul of 
yours! . . . Monsieur, before that pride and that 
scorn, I lay down my own hopes. . . . They are my 
life, but what of that ? I shall go poor and lonely and 
heart-sick for sake of a dream — unrealized. But, you 
monsieur, your great strong heart will have won the 


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The Rubbish Heap 

day, even as the so-great courage of your nation’s sea- 
dogs have won the victories of the main! If I have 
failed to persuade you that Art is worth a little 
sacrifice, it is then that I must resign Art, and be 
content to make the sacrifice. ” 

He rose. Tears trembled in his eyes. The queer 
Eaun-like mouth drooped sadly at the corners. He 
looked at Mara, and she came closer to him and looked 
sadly at him. 

“The great Adventure, it will never be,” he said 
softly. “ I must say farewell to you, p’titefee , for how 
could I see you and hold back my pencil or my brush 
from their desires ! ’ ’ 

“Well, glory be to God!” exclaimed Michael Quirke, 
rising also, and laying down his pipe on the table. 
“It’s niver in me life I’ve heard such quare talk as 
you’ve bin after lettin’ out on me this day ! The half 
av it I don’t be understandin’ at all. But quare, or 
not, you seem, a good-hearted kindly boy, an’ the child, 
blessin’s on her soul, she does seem to take to you, 
an’ ’tis not I would be bringin’ the sorrowful look on 
her face, as is there tonight. But I’ve me own feelin’s, 
an’ there’s three generations av me family as would 
niver be trustin’ a furriner! Still, for sake av the drop 
o’ red English blood, an’ the respect ye have for me 
callin,’ an’ the honour ye’ve paid to the great men as 
me country gave to it, I’ll not be too hard on ye. Ye 
can make yer picture of the child, an’ ye may show it, 
if ye wish, but first ye’ll promise me, man to man, as 
ye’ll not put her own name to it , the way that people 
could iver throw it in her face as ’twas a model she’d 
been. ” 

Christopher’s sense of humour struggled with his 
sense of propriety. But he kept a grave face, as he 


89 


Art and Prejudice 

confronted his opponent. He asked himself what on 
earth all the trouble had been, seeing how easily it was 
swept away by a compromise. Honestly he could give 
that promise. No signature should ever betray the 
identity of the model with the subject of the picture. 

“And never," he cried enthusiastically, “not even 
shall the horses of wildness — les chevaux feroces — drag 
from me that name so sacred! My hand on it, mon 
brave chien-de-mer ! We so assign our friendship, and 
we are henceforth as one in our care for this most 
precious child!" 

He slapped the sturdy back of Michael Quirke with 
what he deemed true British heartiness. He wrung 
his hand with renewed fervour. He even looked 
for the wherewithal to drink his respected health, and 
sign the verbal contract so happily concluded. 

Michael Quirke noted the glance, and acted on the 
hint. 

“Run ye off an’ fetch the glasses, mavourneen, " 
he said, with swift descent to commonplace, “an’ tell 
herself I want the key av the cupboard here. It’s 
a wonder to me, sir, as perhaps ye’ll know one day, the 
way that women do be begrudgin’ a man his freedom 
with the drink. How can they tell what’s in his 
mind, or how much is good for him? Sit ye down 
again, sir, an’ it’s pleased I am that we’re understand- 
in’ one another. For the way a man puts a thing it 
isn’t the way a woman puts it, an’ I niver got the 
rights o’ the matter explained from Katty there, or 
from the girleen, who couldn’t rightly tell av it. An’ 
ye so painstakin’, for all yer talk is a trifle hard to 
get the meanin’ of. Well, glory be to God! that's 
settled an’ done with! An’ here’s herself, along wid 
the glasses. Katty, woman, it’s the whiskey I’m 


9 o 


The Rubbish Heap 

wantin’ to drink the health o’ this young gintleman. 
If he were the Lord Mayor himself, sure, he couldn’t 
be more affable; askin’ me to the Great House an’ 
all!” 

“Didn’t I know ye’ were makin’ a fool av yerself, 
Michael Quirke, ” said his wife. “You, wid yer grand 
idays as would be settin’ up rules for the quality. 
Here’s yer whiskey, an’ ye might as well pour a drop 
for meself, seein’ we’re all friends now, an’ the young 
gintleman one av the best customers as iver stepped 
into the shop. Sure an’ it’s a wonder ye haven’t 
put such an offence on him as he’d niver be cornin’ 
here agin. ” 

“But no, all is well arranged!” exclaimed Christo- 
pher. “ Fiche-moi la paix, as one says at Montmartre. 
I am once more happy. I set up my easel, in the 
atelier de luxe that I have furnished to myself, and 
that madame there, has so assisted. Once more I 
dream the dreams of the artist. Once more ” 

“Your health, sir, ” interposed Michael at a critical 
moment. 

“An’ wishin’ you the great joy av yer queer trade, ” 
added Katty, draining her goblet in honour of the 
toast. 

Christopher rose to his feet and made them one of 
his formal bows. “ I thank you both; and I give you, 
monsieur, my best wishes for the voyages of industrie y 
and to you, madame, the prosperity of the Rubbish 
Heap!” 

He sipped cautiously, and coughed furiously, not 
being used to spirits, and finding Irish whiskey little 
to his taste. 

“What was that ye’re after sayin’?” exclaimed 
Michael. 


9i 


Art and Prejudice 

“Ah sure, it’s the lumber in the attic he’s after 
manin’,” interposed Katty. “’Twas there he first 
saw the child, an’ got his iday av makin’ a picture 
av her on the rubbish heap. ” 

Michael Quirke shook his head doubtfully. “It’s 
long since I was interferin’ wid the house or the busi- 
ness, ” he observed. “But to hear that any room av 
it should be called that is a strange thing. ” 

“It will be in the picture,” said Katty proudly. 
“An’ sure, that’s an honour that’s not cornin’ your 
way, Michael Quirke, strange thing or not. An’ 
it’s a wonder an’ a great glory too that the despised 
room, an’ the little lone child should be bringin’ us 
such good fortune. An’ one day, maybe, we’ll see 
thim commingled like thim prints av Queen Victorey 
an’ her husband an’ children, God save them all!” 

“But yes,” interposed Christopher eagerly, “they 
were once but a strip of painted canvas, those prints ; 
and the artist, he has them engraved so that they 
can be purchased with quite a small sum. So it is to 
be famous, my good friends, and to commence from 
the small beginnings, as one says, to the great ends.” 

He raised his glass, bowed to the quaint couple, who 
were gazing at him in much perplexity, and then took 
his leave. 

“ Sacre mille cochons! But I did that well!” he 
told himself, as he limped along the dirty streets, and 
twisting alleys. “I am as the great Caesar himself. 
I come, I behold — and I conquer! Ah! if Art could 
be so easily conquered as the good sea-dog yonder, or 
my so worthy, and so impossible aunts!” 


SCENE VII 


The Studio Again . Some Weeks Have Passed 


The Action in the Scene 

Christopher in a painting blouse, and with sundry 
smudges of colour on his face and hands, was pacing 
up and down the studio in a frenzy of despair. Mara, 
seated on the model throne, watched him with puzzled 
eyes. On the divan, supported by cushions, and busy 
over some complicated stitch of fancy-work, sat Miss 
Jane. She very often came up to the studio now, 
with or without the excuse of chaperonage. The 
whole affair of the sittings, and hours of attendance, 
had been arranged with Katty Quirke, and Christo- 
pher had thrown himself eagerly into the picture. But 
Art is often capricious, elusive, and through the very 
intensity of his desires he lost the capacity of embody- 
ing them on his canvas. 

The child was patience itself. She took the pose 
and wore the expression he had suggested, but the 
picture did not progress and the face eluded him the 
more he tried to copy it. The truth was that he had 
yet much to learn in the way of technique . His draw- 
^ ing was faulty, and colour showed up its defects instead 
of concealing them. Then, also, his ideals were on a 
scale altogether too lofty and impossible. It was 
92 


The Studio Again 93 

as if a composer, capable only of waltz tunes, should 
dash into the maelstrom of a symphony. 

Yet the boy had a certain skill, and that grasp of 
vision which is the secret of successful painting. Only 
in this instance he failed to grasp it and lacked the 
patience of the well-drilled student. 

He recalled, in his failures, what his father had told 
him, that Art is a Moloch devouring without scruple 
all that is thrown to it. The great crowd of idolaters 
come up again and again and cast their lives of effort 
into the furnace, and bring out — what? Rarely any- 
thing save despair. 

It had seemed so easy to the boy to prepare his 
temple, surround himself with accessories, secure his 
model, and commence to work. But hours lapsed 
into days, and days into weeks, and the picture was 
not yet on the canvas. 

This morning the whole idea had vanished. In 
place of it he could only see the lost fairy of the 
Mountains. A wisp-like, shadowy thing with float- 
ing hair that shone like the sunlight, and wistful 
eyes that besought direction. Should he attempt 
that, and leave the more difficult details of his first 
study for a later time? He came abruptly to where 
the child was seated. 

“It is of no use, Mara, I grow weary of trying. I 
cannot get it. It seems to me that I should transfer 
my easel to that lumber room of yours, and paint 
from the absolute — I mean the ‘Rubbish Heap.’” 

Miss Jane looked up with mildly wondering eyes. 
“But how strange, dear Christopher. I thought 
you had nearly completed the picture. You seem 
to have worked so hard. ” 

“It has vanished — gone!” he cried impatiently. 


94 


The Rubbish Heap 


‘‘That is the way with me so often. Dear my aunt, 
do me one great favour, will you ? And, please, do not 
put on the British air of ‘so shocking!’ Listen, I 
have a new idea, born out of the failure of this other, 
or a part of it. Ce n’est rien> ga, but to execute it, it 
is necessary that Mara should disrobe herself of that 
so ugly dress, and the altogethers. Petticoats, stock- 
ings, what not ? Then I shall give to her this drapery 
here,” he pointed to the heap of sea-green muslin, 
“but it is necessary that I arrange it myself. Now, 
will you be the femme de chambre of the occasion? 
Voyez, that screen there — I will draw it around the 
divan; then you shall make the toilette. You may, 
if you wish, preserve to her that first garment of her 
sex, I know not what you call it here; chemise , it is in 
France. But nothing else. Then I will so arrange 
the drapery that it floats around her as a cloud 
where she stands. Eh bien, you understand, do you 
not?” 

Miss Jane coloured to her temples. ‘‘Of course I 
understand, but really you know, my dear Christo- 
pher, it does not seem quite — right. I fear your 
Aunt Augusta would not approve. ” 

‘‘Oh, I pray you do not be prudish, chere tante /” he 
entreated. “Have I not told you that to Art all is 
sacred? Sex becomes passionless, and nudity divine. 
. . . Besides you are here, are you not? What 
then remains to be said?” 

“But Mara herself — perhaps ?” 

He turned swiftly to the child. “Most patient 
one,” he said, “will you do me that favour? You 
have heard?” 

The child rose slowly from the stand. “Yes, sir, 
I have heard. You spoke of it once before. And I do 


95 


The Studio Again 

not need the lady to be undressin’ me at all, and if 
you’d lend me that length of muslin I think I could 
fix it meself, like — like that you’d wish it, I’m think- 
ing?” 

She pointed to a picture on the wall. An elusive 
nymph with fluttering draperies, wind-caught and 
diaphanous as a cloud. 

“But yes, you have caught it, the idea!” cried the 
boy eagerly. “And there is the muslin for you, and I 
will make haste to prepare a new canvas while you 
arrange yourself. Only this pose will not be so easy, 
for you must stand all the time, but I can sketch very 
rapidly, and I shall try not to keep you too long.” 

Miss Jane sighed resignedly. Less and less could 
she hold her own against this extraordinary nephew 
whose views of Art and life had revolutionized all her 
previous theories. But she made an effort to assist 
the child in the matter of tapes and buttons, and won- 
dered not a little at the fine quality of her undergar- 
ments. Katty Quirke had provided the best she could 
procure, and the little cambric shift with its border 
of lace was far more dainty than Miss Jane’s longcloth 
and Swiss insertions. 

With deft quick hands the child caught up the 
flimsy muslin, twisted a fold about one shoulder 
leaving the other bare. Another fold held the float- 
ing drapery to her slender shape. Then she shook 
her hair from its confining ribbon, and stepped out 
from behind the screen. Christopher looked up and 
gave a cry of rapture. 

“Mon Dieu, but that is my dream embodied! 
Montez done ; step up to the throne, my child. So — 
that bit of muslin it must fly out from the arm as if 
the wind has caught it. Bon! Now, can you stand 


96 


The Rubbish Heap 

there in that pose , for ten minutes, and I have it. 
Never mind the expression. It is the figure I want.” 

And it was the figure he got this time by some happy 
fluke. A few rapid strokes, and the outline was 
there; the grace and poise of the fairy thing who had 
strayed from her own people to an unknown world. 
Breathless he worked, and patiently the child stood, 
lost in the imagery of what she represented as he told 
her the story. 

Miss Jane took up her crochet again. She began to 
think that Art was very curious, and that she must 
try and root up some of her Victorian prejudices. 
She wondered if Christopher would ever paint her? 
As a portrait, of course, not a subject. There was a 
black velvet dress in her wardrobe, slightly open at 
the neck, and trimmed with real Mechlin lace. It 
would be a very suitable gown for the occasion. 
She had always wanted her portrait to be painted, 
but Miss Augusta had sniffed at the notion as absurd, 
and suggested photography. But Miss Jane did not 
make a good photograph, and that effort to “look 
pleasant” only succeeded in making her look silly. 
However, here was a chance of securing her ambition. 
Possibly Christopher would do it out of gratitude 
for her patient chaperonage. She would ask him. 
Glancing up at the absorbed face she was about to 
put the question when something stayed her. It was 
the opening of the door and the appearance of a round 
and very rosy face surmounted by a large frilled cap. 

“If you please, ma’am, ” said a voice, “I was to 
come and say that luncheon would be on the table in 
five minutes.” 

Miss Jane sprang to her feet. Christopher waved 
his charcoal impatiently. “Do not move, Mara; 


The Studio Again 97 

just as you are, for one more minute — Hola! — ah, 
Mon Dieu!” 

There was a crash, a fall, and the little fragile figure 
rolled from the model throne to the floor, and lay 
there still and motionless. With a horrified cry Miss 
Jane rushed to her side. Christopher dropped his 
pencil, and did the same. The little scullery maid in 
the doorway gave a frightened gasp, and also sprang 
forward. 

“Is it a fit? My sister ’as ’em,” she remarked 
cheerfully, and looked round for water. But the 
child, with a little quivering sigh, opened her eyes 
and gazed at the startled faces. 

“ It was my fault — I kept her too long — she 
fainted!” exclaimed Christopher. “Are you better, 
Mara? It was only that you were a little faint, is it 
not?” 

The child struggled to her feet. She was very 
white, and her lips quivered. “I don’t know what it 
was that came over me,” she gasped. “All the 
room turned dark. . . . But I am quite well again.” 

“My fault! Of course it was my fault!” repeated 
Christopher. “You should have had some lunch; a 
sandwich, milk, coffee, something! And I forgot and 
kept you in that strained pose so long. Dear aunt, 
she must have some food. Let her come to luncheon, 
will you not?” 

“Of course. She can go to the housekeeper’s 
room,” said Miss Jane. “Cherry will help her to 
dress, and take her there. ” 

“The housekeeper’s room!” Christopher’s brows 
drew angrily together. “I did not mean that, my 
aunt. I do not see why she should not come with us 
to the dining-room?” 


7 


98 


The Rubbish Heap 


“But, dear Christopher, your aunt Augusta — you 
forget. She would never permit such a — a breach of 
social etiquette!" 

“Is it then that? A breach of social etiquette? 
Poor little Mara! We have much to learn, you 
and I.” 

He laid his hand on her bright head. “There! 
hasten then, and put on your ugly clothes, and become 
as before. Another time I will have some food pre- 
pared up here, and we will have our lunch together 
as is done in the studios of Paris, where there is no 
‘ social etiquette.’ ” 

“If you would like — I mean if you would ask your 
aunt Augusta?” faltered Miss Jane, a little uncom- 
fortable by reason of his remark. 

“Ask? No, my aunt! What you have said is 
doubtless what she will also say. For me — I am a 
Bohemian at heart, and it matters little with whom 
I sit down, or associate. But, of course, with you it 
is different; as different as England is from France. 
Let us descend now, or perhaps the great Augusta 
will be vexed. ” 

Mara had retired behind the screen. Cherry Men- 
lo ve also. The aunt and nephew left the studio; 
Miss Jane in a fluttered and distraught state of mind 
that was also self-repentant. Perhaps after all Miss 
Augusta would not have mipded, and the poor child 
must have been faint for want of good food, and there 
was only cold mutton in the servants’ hall. 

Christopher returned to the studio the moment 
luncheon was over. 

It had been a somewhat uncomfortable meal, for 
Miss Jane had related the studio incident, and Miss 


99 


The Studio Again 

Augusta seemed more concerned than she had ex- 
pected. She came to the conclusion that the little 
model was not sufficiently fed, and rebuked Christo- 
pher for thoughtlessness. But he was quite ready to 
accept the rebuke, for he knew well how often a 
studio model would faint from the strain of some 
unaccustomed pose as well as the meagre fare which 
her wages afforded. 

When he returned to the studio and looked at his 
morning’s work he was conscious of a thrill of gratifi- 
cation. In that short time he had embodied an idea. 
He almost feared to touch it so full of airy grace and 
yet of life seemed the little figure. But he knew that 
colour was necessary, and again as he closed his eyes 
he saw a chain of dark cloud-capped mountains, the 
crimson glow of the dying day, and a fluttering misty 
shape of green-and-gold with wondering eyes that 
held one spellbound. 

It was odd that his second inspiration should have 
replaced the first. And yet the first had claimed long 
and painstaking effort. Suddenly he remembered 
Mara. Where was she? Had she returned home? 
He rang his bell, and presently it was answered by 
Cherry Menlo ve. He looked surprised. 

“You? I wanted Tomlinson. I rang for him.’' 

“If you please, sir, I was to say that it is my place 
to answer your bell. Mister Tomlinson not liking the 
stairs, sir.” 

“Oh . . . is that so? Well, I only wanted to ask 
where the little girl is. Did you give her some 
dinner?” 

“Yes, sir. But she’d hardly eat anything; ’twould 
be enough for a bird, and so shy too. We couldn’t 
get a word from her, sir. ” 


100 


The Rubbish Heap 


' Christopher was thankful that the rosy hand- 
maiden had given up giggling. 

Her bashfulness now centred in her hands which 
were pleating and crumpling her apron, and her 
cheeks where the bright colour deepened to a painful 
shade of crimson if she caught the young artist’s 
eye. 

“Perhaps there was not anything that she liked,” 
he said. ‘ ‘ Where is she now ? ’ ’ 

“ Gone home, sir. ” 

He remembered that she was only to come to him 
for a couple of hours in the morning, and glanced 
impatiently at his easel. Cherry’s eyes followed the 
glance. They widened with astonishment. 

“It’s just her living self!” she cried. “Did you 
do that, sir?” 

“Well, is it you suppose that it grew there — out of 
nothing?” asked Christopher. 

“It’s wonderful!” she gasped. “Might be alive!” 

The vanity of the artist awoke even to an untutored 
appreciation. 

v “ You find i t so ? You would know what it meant ? ’ * 

“Meant?” she gasped. “Why — ’tis that little 
Irish girl, of course, sir!” 

S “And something more, I hope. That is what a 
picture should always be. Itself — and something 
more. I wonder if you would like me to make one 
of you, some day, Cherry Blossom?” 

“Me!” Her blushes were painful. Her giggling 
demanded the assistance of the apron. “Fancy me 
in a picture! Lor’, sir! Cook would be mad.” 

“I am not concerned with the feelings of Cook,” 
answered Christopher. “You see it is that I draw, 
paint, design, anything that makes appeal to me. 


IOI 


The Studio Again 

This child — for one. You, perhaps, for another. But 
I see you only in a field. The wheat in full ear; 
poppies blazing around; you — ah — it is that you 
stand in the glow and heat of summer. A sheaf 
of the ripe grain is balanced on your head. . . . 
Take off that cap a moment. . . . Let me see your 
hair.” 

With renewed confusion she obeyed, revealing a 
wealth of flaxen plaits tightly coiled. 

Christopher frowned slightly. '‘You must have 
a sunbonnet, or a handkerchief around your 
head.” 

He glanced about the room, but seeing nothing, 
took a coloured silk handkerchief from his pocket, and 
tied it under the chin of the astonished girl. “Yes, 
that is how you compose. When shall I sketch you 
— now?” 

“I don’t rightly know what you means, sir, ” gasped 
Cherry, in an agony of confusion, and with a sudden 
sense of the softness and perfume of the silk covering 
that turned her faint. 

Christopher laughed. “I am rather sudden, is 
it not? But that is my way. I am not slow and 
ponderous as you people here. But, perhaps, you too 
have permission to acquire before you consent to 
pose? Who is your mother? Is it Cook?” 

“Cook!” She bubbled with suppressed mirth. 
“I ain’t got no mother, sir, nor yet a father. ’Twas 
the workhouse brought me up. In Warchester, sir. 
And then I was put to service, and I got this place by 
good luck and chance, sir. But I’m nothing much you 
see, and the upper servants they do put upon me, sir; 
but that’s the way of their class, as no doubt you 
know, sir. ” 


102 


The Rubbish Heap 

“It is that you can talk as well as giggle, ” observed 
: Christopher. “A history in a nutshell. Well, as you 
have no one to ask permission of you may as well let 
me sketch you. The more of subjects I obtain the 
better. Go — and stand over there. ” 

He pointed to the model throne, and the girl went 
obediently to it, and so it was that half an hour later 
a scandalised Tomlinson, looking in at the studio 
door, discovered the missing scullery-maid posing as 
another model for the enthusiastic artist. 

“This was not what I expected of you, sir,” he 
exclaimed reproachfully. “Putting wrong ideas into 
young females’ heads!” 

“I told you that I must have models if I am going 
to work,” said Christopher. “Only I do wish that 
she would not blush so much ! What for a skin have 
they, these English country maids!” 

“That — is not for me to say, sir. But if you have 
quite finished with your — study, is it, sir? I should 
like to mention that there’s the luncheon things wait- 
ing to be washed up, and Cook in that temper as 
threatens to spoil the dinner tonight. And what to 
say I don’t know, for when you talked of models , sir, 
it was quite another class of person as I expected you 
to engage, sir.” 

“Ah ha! my Tomlinson, I well know what it is you 
expected ! The grisette; the ouvribre; the classic model 
of the Quartier Latin. I am sorry to disappoint you, 
but that is not my metier. I want to — what one says, 
make capture of the English taste. To do that my 
1 subjects must be simple, natural, homely, as those of 
^your Landseer and your Morland. Ah — is it you 
depart at once, Cherry Ripe? Then, if you please, 
my handkerchief. ” 


103 


The Studio Again 

He unknotted the silk from the blushing face, and 
pointed gravely to the discarded cap. 

*‘1 must wait on the chef de cuisine for my next 
sitting. Tomlinson, I shall have to ask of you to help 
me in this matter.’ * 


SCENE VIII 


In Agglestone House 
The Action in the Scene 

(This takes place in the Mind of a Spinster Lady 
of Forty.) 

Exactly when it came to Miss Jane Agglestone 
that her life had been somewhat too narrow and 
restricted in its outlook, as in its objects, would be 
hard to say. But in the restless hours of one sleepless 
night she found herself questioning this outlook, 
and trying to re-adjust it to the changes wrought by 
young life and new interests. 

From the first she had succumbed to the charm of 
her half-foreign nephew ; he had completed his victory 
by treating her as a sort of elder sister, and giving 
her the freedom of his studio as frankly as he gave her 
his confidences. But apart from the many astonishing 
things she had learnt, was the discovery of a growing 
selfishness that had warped her own and her sister’s 
lives, and left them indifferent to the sorrows and 
hardships around them. 

What Christopher had learnt in a few weeks they 
had never learnt in a score of years. A regular at- 
tendance at the Parish Church, a yearly subscription 
to local charities, the occasional grudging patronage 
104 


In Agglestone House 105 

given to a local concert, or bazaar, had sufficed as 
duty to their neighbours. To all else they had been 
indifferent; shut in behind their grey stone walls, 
careful only of their own health and convenience. 
But the coming of Christopher had changed all this. 

Miss Jane lay back on the pillows, staring with 
wide-open eyes at the circle of white ceiling shown by 
the night-light. And, as she lay, a vision of chill and 
wasted years swept over her memory. They seemed 
to demand what use she had made of the precious 
gift of Life? 

Certainly she had been a dutiful and obedient 
daughter. Her naturally sweet temper had easily 
gained for her the reputation of amiability. It was 
a much admired virtue of the Jane Austen and George 
Eliot school. To Miss Jane, in her sudden fit of self- 
accusation, it looked very like weakness. It had 
meant yielding to the opinions of others because it 
was too much trouble to withstand them. Yet one 
memory could still bring a blush to her cheek, a 
flutter to her heart. It was the memory of a girlish 
romance, born of a casual meeting, cemented by a 
county ball at which she had “come out, ” and nipped 
in the bud by her parents’ disapprobation, and her 
elder sister’s jealousy. The lover had been gay, bold, 
persistent; but her own cowardice had held him off. 
She could not do what he asked, which indeed was to 
place him and their love before parental authority. 
She faltered, paltered, excused, delayed until he 
wearied of a one-sided argument and went off to a 
war then raging on an Indian frontier. She never 
heard from him again, but once she had seen his name 
in despatches, and learnt that he was a Captain of 
the — th Dragoon Guards. After that she had looked 


106 The Rubbish Heap 

in vain for news of him. Whether he had fallen on 
the battle-field, or been taken prisoner by some hill 
tribe, she could not tell. All that she had left of that 
romance was a faded letter, a withered rose, and the 
dance programme of her first ball. 

How far away that looked tonight taking seventeen 
years from forty. And yet Christopher had told 
her she need not look thirty if only she would 
allow him to advise her in the matter of dress and 
coiffure. But dread of Augusta’s rebuke, or Augusta’s 
ridicule, held her back from such persuasion. No 
doubt she and her sister were antiquated, odd-looking 
persons to one accustomed to the fashionable and 
gaily caparisoned French women; but all their chill 
middle-aged lives had held them back from feminine 
vanity except that worst form of vanity which holds 
that it is a law unto itself. Youth seemed a very 
brief thing to Miss Jane as she looked back on it. 
The modes and opinions of the day had not been of 
that elastic nature which in modern times sets the 
grandmother frisking in a cotillion, or the matron of 
forty conducting an intrigue with the youth of seven- 
teen. 

Such things, though they were recorded in news- 
papers, and were the subject of novels, seemed inex- 
pressibly shocking to the spinsters of Agglestone House ; 
never till the arrival of Christopher had Miss Jane 
even permitted herself to speak of them as existing. 
But to Christopher all discussions on all subjects 
seemed perfectly natural, and Miss Jane became 
aware tonight that she had been drawn into con- 
versations on very “odd” subjects, and had also 
learnt some very queer truths of life, and of men and 
women. But a still queerer thing about all this 


107 


In Agglestone House 

was that she found herself not in the least shocked. 
Sins and failures and temptations had been presented 
as part of essential humanity. The world had taken 
all sorts to make it and it needed all sorts to keep it 
up. Why grumble at the world, since it existed 
only for such a purpose? A battleground of effort 
strewn with many failures ; hopeless struggles ; brave 
endeavour; patient heroisms. And in learning these 
things she had found herself confronted by a small- 
mindedness that was humiliating. Once when she 
had pleaded Augusta’s stronger nature, Augusta’s 
uncompromising rule, Christopher had told her that 
to lay blame on others in no way excused oneself. 

“You two dear good souls have been shut up in a 
prison of your own making. I wish someone would 
break down the doors and set you free!” 

It had not occurred to him that he might be that 
“someone” any more than it had seemed necessary 
to alter his own views, or ways of life, to suit their 
old-fashioned ideas. But Miss Jane knew that he 
had made an extraordinary difference to the house- 
hold, and to herself. No one, save in that far-off time 
of romance, had ever troubled to note her appearance; 
to say that one colour, or one particular dress suited 
her better than another; to point out that she walked 
gracefully, or that a certain poise of her head would 
“compose” well in a picture. 

Yet such things were not unpleasant to hear even 
if one was forty, and had been supposed to relegate 
feminine vanity to the shelf — of “ suitable-to-our-age,” 
which was Miss Augusta’s formula for any change 
of fashion. Miss Jane had found these semi-compli- 
ments very insidious. They had led to a prolonged 
consultation with her mirror as to whether a more 


108 The Rubbish Heap 

modish style of hair-dressing would really — to quote 
her nephew again — “take ten years off her age?” 
Whether a hat might not replace the prim bonnet 
whose shape scarcely varied whatever its trimming? 

But her fear of Augusta held her back from essaying 
such innovations. Never, she felt, could she conquer 
this timidity of soul which had always kept her like a 
child under that stronger guardianship. Yet now 
that she was awaking to what beauty and colour 
and youth meant in the world, she felt that odd 
hungry want of sex-starved womanhood. The asser- 
tion of its importance ; the demand of its rights. 

! When she watched the flower-like face of Mara, 
or touched the soft skin as she helped her to dress, or 
caught the adoring glance of the child bent on Christo- 
pher, her heart would beat in a quite unorthodox 
fashion. She was fluttered, and disturbed. The 
eternal message, the eternal hope had so long passed 
her by. Never for her the magic of a babe's first 
cry, the pathos or pangs of motherhood, the joy of 
giving as of moulding life to some sweet pattern and 
helpful future. 

And she knew the loss was her own fault. She had 
yielded love to authority from sheer feebleness of 
mind, and Love had stretched his wings and floated 
away shutting the door of Hope behind him. 

She had deemed herself content with this grey 
monotonous existence; the sense of subdued luxury, 
careful tendance, regulated days that had merged 
into years. 

“It used to be enough for me,” she told herself in 
this wakeful midnight introspection. “Why is it so 
no longer?” 

Possibly Christopher could have answered that. 


109 


In Agglestone House 

Christopher with his queer talk and passionate 
enthusiasms, his method of going straight for the 
person, the object, the thing he wanted, and getting 
them too. That was the wonder of the boy. He had 
established himself here as assuredly as if it had 
always been his home. He had conquered prejudice 
and narrow-mindedness. From the mistress of the 
house down to the scullery-maid and boot-boy, all were 
his slaves, and all had been utilized in his sketch-book 
for some point or another that seemed to promise 
“subjects.” 

It was incomprehensible to Miss Jane that ordinary 
human beings could assume such importance, and all 
for the sake of this queer visionary thing that was 
called “Art.” 

It appeared that Art was the one and only joy of 
life. That it controlled and visualized its best 
moments. That the glory which “never was on land 
or sea” lived in the manifold meanings of that word, 
and that any sacrifice for sake of it was to be com- 
mended, without count of cost. 

She thought, with a little conscious flush, of some of 
those books on Christopher’s shelves. Of the pas- 
sions and joys, the sins and shames, the raptures and 
ravings their pages or their illustrations had given to 
her curious gaze. Here was Art visualized, glorified, 
made alive, as it were. Its medium that of living 
words instead of glowing colour; its rhythm that of 
strange hidden secrets, wild kisses, mad delights. 

And all these things this boy of eighteen knew, and 
all these books he had read, yet he seemed gay and 
innocent enough. He could give his hours and his 
work to a child, or a scullery-maid, and think of them 
as consecrated to a good cause. And whatever the 


no 


The Rubbish Heap 

cause, this poor empty-hearted spinster knew that it 
was better than emptiness. That to do something, 
work for something, live for something, was what life 
meant, and that men or women who denied them- 
selves either effort or endeavour could never hope to 
realize true joy. 

From retrospection she turned to resolution. Some- 
thing must be done by herself, as well as by others. 
She was tired of being a passive spectator, the echo 
of her stronger-minded sister, the figure in the 
chimney-corner obedient to rule and order. 

“I know what I will do!” she cried suddenly. “I 
will adopt that child; educate and train her. I can 
easily teach what I have learnt, bring her up to a 
refined and useful life. Win her affection as Christo- 
pher has won it, and give her a home to compensate 
for her past sufferings and privations!” 

The idea pleased her mightily. Something young 
and tractable and beautiful to train under her sole 
guidance; to be, perhaps, a companion in years to 
come. 

Youth suddenly seemed to her the one desirable 
thing. To have fresh thoughts and fresh ideas 
growing up around one must surely stimulate one’s 
own energies, and retard those evil days when desire 
fails, and the sad heart can only cry, “I have no 
pleasure in them.” 

“It would be good for her, and a great pleasure ' 
for me, ” she thought, as the scheme worked into her 
brain. “I suppose those queer Irish folk won’t 
object? It isn’t as if they were really her parents. 
And I am sure it would please Christopher.” 

To please Christopher had suddenly become her 
constant thought. She arranged the flowers in his 


Ill 


In Agglestone House 

studio. She mended and replaced the minor articles 
of his wardrobe. She gave patient hearing to his art 
rhapsodies, and listened as if entranced to his guitar 
when he sang his queer French songs to its accom- 
paniment. 

Miss Augusta had noted all this with somewhat 
grim disfavour. But, so far, she had not actually 
rebuked it. Possibly because she too felt something 
of the boy’s fascination, or realized that having 
accepted his presence she could not very well cavil 
at its consequences. 

“After all,” she had told her sister, “he has none 
of the wildness, the dreadful vices of his unfortunate 
father. He does not drink, or gamble; and this 
painting craze of his will keep him out of the further 
mischief of — well, of imprudent love affairs.” 

Miss Jane recalled these words on this most strange 
nuit blanche when sleep refused to visit her. A love 
affair — and Christopher? It would be terrible she 
felt. Some strange outside influence would draw 
him from this home and the adoring worship she had 
poured out at his feet. She and Augusta would be 
relegated to a background of insignificance. His 
very art might suffer. In those wild stories of passion 
at which she had glanced it was always the artist, 
the genius, the gifted soul who was wrecked by Love’s 
devastating force. Ordinary folk seemed to accept 
life’s great mystery with calm philosophy. But, 
as she thought of Christopher, she could not fancy 
him accepting anything with any sort of calmness. 
Of course to set against these possibilities was the 
fact of his delicacy ; his avowed indifference to women 
as a sex, apart from their use as models for the artist. 
He had told Miss Jane quite frankly that he had had 


1 12 


The Rubbish Heap 

scores of affaires , but never one that had caused him a 
moment’s heartache. It had all meant part of the 
game of life. A little dallying by the wayside before 
the “great reality” should come. And the great 
reality to him was Art. 

“Never any woman can be to me what this my true 
and only mistress is!” he had cried grandiloquently, 
and Miss Jane, with that faint blush which so amused 
him, had only remarked: “What very odd things 
you do say, my dear Christopher!” 

As she reached this point in her reflections Miss 
Jane felt her eyelids beginning to close. The white 
circle on the ceiling faded into uncertain distance. 
The ticking of her watch sounded fainter and fainter. 
Thought lapsed into something profound, and mysteri- 
ous, and the world of dreams bore her slumbering 
senses into a new and peaceful atmosphere. 


SCENE IX 


The Curio Shop 

A matter of opinion between two opposite types 
of Womanhood. 

The Action in the Scene 

Katty Quirke, with arms akimbo, stood behind 
the counter of her shop, and greeted an unexpected 
customer with unexpected frankness. 

“It’s a strange thing ye’re after axin’, Miss. I 
don’t rightly see why ye should want to take the 
child from us as has had the care av her; an’ Michael, 
he lovin’ her as if she were his own. But I can see 
plain enough what ye’re manin’, an’ it all comes av 
that rubbish heap, an’ the quare young gintleman, as 
is yer nephew, an’ the child goin’ to an’ fro to yer fine 
house. Sure, she talks av nothin’ else. As for what 
ye say about her bein’ so refined an’ delicate, an’ all 
the ways av a lady, it’s meself saw that from the 
moment she iver set foot in the place. An’ she don’t 
be atin’ enough to keep a bird alive; an’ always the 
books she do be readin’, or she’ll sit dreamin’ there in 
the chimney-corner wid her eyes as see nothin’ av 
what’s here at all. ’Tis afraid I’ve been sometimes 
that those she came from is callin’ to her the way they 

8 113 


1 14 The Rubbish Heap 

does in the mountains there beyant. An’ so it is 
that though to be fed, an’ clothed, an’ edycated 
would be the grand chance for her, I’m not so sure 
she’d take it. An’ I’m not sure himself would 
ever give her up, although no rightful child av his. 
But you’ll have to get his consint any way. It’s no 
use for me to be sayin’ ye may or ye mayn’t, an’ that’s 
all I can be tellin’ ye, Miss, or the young gintleman 
either. For I’m thinkin’ ’tis he’s at the bottom o’ 
this affair; axin’ yer pardon for the liberty. But sure 
’tis ‘Master Christopher’ all the time; an’ the stories 
he’ll be tellin’, an’ the beautiful room that he’s got 
there, an’ the wonderful things he does be showin’ 
the child, lave alone the pictures he’s makin’ av her.” 

A pause for breath gave Miss Jane Agglestone an 
opportunity for a word on her side. 

“It seems to me very selfish and short-sighted of 
you to deny that dear little girl the opportunity of 
improving her position in life. I can promise her a 
good home, and education, as I said, and her future 
would be my care. What better could you do for 
her — here?” 

She glanced round the dingy shop and at its queer 
untidy owner with the delicate disapproval of refine- 
ment. Katty Quirke bursting into remonstrance 
was checked by the gesture of a lavender-gloved hand. 

“My good woman, one moment if you please. 
You said your husband would be hard to persuade. 
But, as far as I can learn, he is always at sea. And, 
if that is the chief objection, why it would be easy to 
arrange that Mara should come here for such times as 
he is at home, after a voyage. How would that suit 
you?” 

“It might,” said Katty dubiously. “I’m not 


The Curio Shop 115 

saying it would. For av course the child would be 
pampered an’ set up whin at the Great House in 
a way the likes av us couldn’t be affordin’. An* 
whin she’d be stayin’ here why she’d notice the 
difference, an’ that way there’d be discontint. An’ 
himself the sorrowful man seein’ that he brought 
the child away out av the mountains, an’ bade her 
call him her ‘ Da, ’ as niver he was called by a child 
av his own, that I might have given him an’ the ways 
av Providence not so contrairy.” 

The delicate maidenly face flushed painfully be- 
tween the close lines of its old-fashioned bonnet. 
Katty’s shrewd eyes noted embarrassment, and 
wondered what she had said to cause it. 

“I ax yer pardon if I’ve said anything that’s hurt 
yer feelin’s, Miss. Sure, I was forgettin’ the way 
that thim as is single looks on matters as isn’t their 
own experience. Well, well, there’s barren wimmen 
as niver had their chance either. Nature bein’ that 
quare an’ contrairy, as I was sayin’.” 

“We ... we don’t seem to arrive at any decision 
on the matter I called about,” said Miss Jane, 
protestingly. 

“Decision, is it, Miss? Well, what have I been 
tellin’ ye the last quarter av an hour, except that it’s 
not for me to say the child may go, or may not go?” 

“Perhaps, if you asked her — herself?” suggested 
Miss Jane. “Surely you wouldn’t go against her 
inclinations?” 

“Would I be goin’ agin any wish av hers, the fairy ! ” 
exclaimed Katty. “An’ I af eared av me life that I 
might bring down misfortune on me own head; as is 
the way, Miss, if ye does be offendin’ the little people. 
But, there— ye’re not Irish, the Lord forgive ye! an’ 


ii6 The Rubbish Heap 

so ye couldn’t rightly understand what it is I’d be 
manin’. Whist now, would ye like to be seein’ how 
it is wid her, an’ the way she does be puttin’ in her 
time whin she’s not up at the Great House?” 

Miss Jane signified that she would, and Katty 
desired her to follow herself up the dingy old staircase, 
and led the way to the lumber room. 

The Scene Changes 

Mara was sitting on the Rubbish Heap, her eyes 
fixed on Christopher, who was standing before a 
square of canvas roughly pinned to a wooden stand. 

He had returned to his original subject, and was 
intent on getting the effects he desired in their original 
atmosphere. The window stood wide open. It 
had the effect of framing the view beyond, and making 
it the foreground of a living picture far more beautiful 
than any work of art. 

Katty had brought her visitor to the door, which 
she opened very softly. The two absorbed young 
creatures within never even heard it. In the flood 
of golden light that filled the room and centred round 
the figure of the child, Christopher had secured at 
last that elusive idea which had first come to him 
there. 

With rapid strokes and in a frenzy of concentration 
he seized and held the vision of his brain. The sub- 
ject seemed to flow on to the canvas as water flows 
from a living stream. A moment of pure joy was 
his as the exquisite face rose flower-like from the 
outlined rubbish heap, and seemed to smile at its 
rescued treasure, that ragged old book of fairy tales. 

Something in the faces of artist and model held 


The Curio Shop 117 

Miss Jane silent. She touched Katty’s arm and laid 
her finger on her own lips with a significant gesture. 
The Irishwoman understood that this was a scene 
not to be intruded upon. The oddly contrasted 
pair stood side by side in the half-open doorway and 
watched the fevered progress of the painting. Then, 
a far-off tinkling sound caught Katty’s ear. 

The shop-bell. 

She turned swiftly, and with cautious steps de- 
scended the stairs leaving Miss Jane as sole spectator. 

Her mild blue eyes wandered from object to object. 
This then was the lumber room, and yonder the old 
rubbish heap of which Christopher had so often 
spoken, and which he had “painted out” as often 
as he had painted in. More and more did the vagaries 
of Art astonish her. When there were nice clean 
paintable scenes in the world why trouble over dust 
and dirt and the exasperating confusion of a lumber 
room? 

At some point of her questioning Christopher 
looked up. He caught the door ajar; the old-fashioned 
figure; the surprised eyes. 

“ Nom de Dieu! But the chance of chances!” he 
cried, with a frantic grasp at his stick of charcoal. 
“Stay there, my aunt, stay just as you are, I beg you! 
It is what I wanted, and could not bring to mind — - 
The face in the doorway — that regards with that 
prim and wondering surprise the interieur which I at 
last secure ! ” 

Miss Jane used by now to queer mandates and 
instructions stood still, and endeavoured to preserve 
her expression. And somehow, pell-mell, on the 
square of canvas leaped a picture. The queer old 
room, the rubbish heap in the centre, the child with 


1 1 8 The Rubbish Heap 

her prize rescued from the debris, and in the back- 
ground gazing in surprised bewilderment at it all the 
quaint mid- Victorian figure of an intruder. 

Whatever there was in that study of Art or the in- 
ner meaning of a commonplace subject, Christopher 
caught it and transformed it on this fortunate morn- 
ing. The picture was destined to live, and to claim 
that essential popularity which is the despair of 
genius, and the joy of art-dealers and engravers. 
The signature “Philip Christophe” was one day to 
be a mark of “sellers, ” just as the golden-haired model 
with her deep and questioning eyes was to become 
well-known, and eagerly sought of purchasers who 
knew nothing of Art, but dearly loved “a pretty 
picture ” ; with a story in it, for choice. 

Mara’s face was destined to sell many stories, but 
this special morning set its seal upon the favourite. 
And when Christopher at last threw down his brush, 
it was with a long-drawn sigh of rapture. 

“del! but it is good! It is there! I thought it 
would never arrive — and it has. P'tite fee , and you 
my most dear aunt, embrace me. It is that I secure 
my idea at last. I touch the skirts of Fame!’’ 

Miss Jane had come into the room, trembling, and 
pale with excitement; Mara, self-composed as ever, 
rose somewhat stiffly from her attitude on the rubbish 
heap. The boy threw his arms around her, and 
then around his aunt, and kissed them on either 
cheek, while in boastful boyish fashion he rhapsodized 
over a hard-won victory. 

“Always I said I shall do it — some day! I had 
no thought the day was so near. I cannot express, I 
cannot thank, I can only say but for you, my child, 
it had never been there; and but for you, my aunt, 


The Curio Shop 119 

it would have lacked that something beloved of the 
bourgeois British who hang the Kate Greenaway, 
and the Maud Goodall, and the so excellent Millais 
on the walls of their salons , and create for their 
creators an income of envy!” 

“You talk always of that side of — of your Art, dear 
Christopher, ” said his aunt. “I have always under- 
stood that money-making is the last thing the artist 
considers. And in your case, I am sure it is not so 
very essential, seeing that you have your aunt Augusta 
and myself to provide for you, and an assured home 
at your service.” 

“Ah — that is of your goodness, as I well know! 
But see you not, ma tante , that I want much, much more 
than that? I want to travel the wide world; to see 
great countries, great people, the best that life has 
and that Art can show. Then, too, I should like to 
study under some great teacher. To perfect myself, 
as one says, in what I strive to accomplish.” 

He waved his hand towards the window. “ Voild! 
it is that I should wish to make live. But nature is of 
all things the hardest taskmistress ! So, pour le 
moment, see you not, I adventure only on the subject 
that stands for copy. In nature one needs no models. 
The sun, the sky, the roll of the sea, the atmosphere 
so elusive and enchanting, these are at once the 
desire and despair of the true artist. I, in my mood 
of times, I could weep and gnash my teeth for very 
impotence of what I fail to do, and yet, the Hope is 
there, the Desire is there ! It is only that again and 
again I feel that to try is to fail, and failure — ah! 
there are times when the dark river and the poison 
draught alone can answer for what that means!” 

Miss Jane shuddered. It seemed to her most 


120 


The Rubbish Heap 

terrifying that any desire, however noble or inspired, 
could re-act in such tragic fashion, or that Failure 
had a deeper meaning than merely non-success. 

Involuntarily she drew Mara closer to her side. 

* ‘But, dear Christopher, why not content yourself 
with just simple, natural pictures, such as you call 
‘popular’? You could live quite comfortably here, 
and Mara would always be at hand to — to pose for 
you; and though I do not know very much about Art, 
yet I believe child pictures and scenes are very much 
appreciated in this country.” 

Christopher made a fantastic gesture. “ There speaks 
the good, stolid British ideal! In this country, see 
you, you have no true Art, because you have no true 
freedom. Oh! I know well what you would say and 
believe. The sentiments of your songs of patriotism? 
But I ask you, what is there nationally of free un- 
fettered Art in your tumty-tum music, your most 
proper and dull fiction, your Academy of discreet and 
domestic subjects? Nothing — as I well know; as 
my father has so often told me; he whose boyhood 
was stifled and crushed by the so rigid proprieties 
of your most worthy parents. That word, dear my 
aunt, is the death knell of all that stands for liberty 
of soul. Worthy l It is so excellent, so well-meaning, 
so hung around with millstones of convention. It 
has laid the little beaten track where the holders of 
narrow creeds, the prudish, self-conscious bourgeoisie 
of Britain walk with downcast eyes and uplifted skirts. 

* Let us not look for fear we shall see, ’ that is what 
you English have for a creed. And because you 
refuse to see it, you say it is not there to see! I tell 
this to you though I would not be so bold perhaps 
before the good stolid Augusta. She, of herself. 


121 


The Curio Shop 

embodies all the most prudish of English virtues. 
They are good, I make no doubt, but too much good- 
ness becomes in time as wearisome as a week of 
Sundays! But there, I have said enough — perhaps 
too much. You will forgive me that I have let my 
tongue run loose in this fashion. Tout comprendre 
c’est tout pardonner , my aunt, and if it is that you do 
not understand all I say, it is also quite sure to me 
that you pardon it. I know well your kindness of 
heart.” 

It was after that eulogy that Miss Jane took courage 
to tell him of her scheme regarding Mara. Her 
desire to take her to a more congenial home, and give 
her the advantages of education. The child listened 
calmly. The change from the cabin of an Irish 
peasant to her present home had not presented any 
very striking contrast, but the difference between 
that home and the comfort and beauty and fasci- 
nations of the Great House, these were of an al- 
together different nature. They had struck some 
chord which responded instantly. They had awak- 
ened a certain fastidious recognition of another 
sort of life infinitely preferable to that of Hatty’ s 
curio shop, and Hatty’s untidy kitchen. To leave 
all that behind — dirt, muddle, even with its setting of 
good nature and kindliness — how different was the 
prospect ! 

Her eyes turned to Christopher. ”1 would always 
be there when you wanted me,” she said simply; 
and the boy laughed, an odd cynical laugh. 

Always there when wanted! The patience, the 
meekness, the absolute femininity of such a 
declaration ! 

“But yes, a model of perpetuation! Bonne chance 


122 


The Rubbish Heap 

which many might envy. It is a good idea. What 
did the so excellent Katty say to it?” 

“As yet — she will not decide,” said Miss Jane. 
“There is someone to be consulted whom she calls 
‘Himself.' I suppose it is her husband she means.” 

“Yes, that is so,” said Christopher, going up 
again to his canvas and gazing rapturously at his 
morning’s achievement. “The worthy sea-dog, the 
good Captain of cargo. He, I take it, will make 
difficulties. Where then is he of the present time, 
my child?’” 

Mara shook her head. ‘ ‘ I cannot well say the name, 
it is long and difficult, but there may be months, two, 
three, before he’d be cornin’ back.” 

“That is too long to wait, is it not, my aunt? 
What then do you propose? If the so excellent and 
amusing Katty ” 

“I’m here, sir,” said a voice, followed by the 
shuffling of feet and the appearance of the curio dealer. 
“ Pat on me name, ” she went on between her panting 
breaths. “An’ there’s someone I’m after bringin’ 
up the stairs, for sure, he wouldn’t take any denial 
since it was Mara he must be seein’. Come here wid 
ye, child, an’ speak to the gintleman. Maybe you 
remimber him?” 

Mara gave a little cry. In the doorway stood the 
purchaser of the Lowestoft bowl. 

The old gentleman looked queerer and shabbier 
than ever. He came unceremoniously forward, and 
stood just within the doorway, and surveyed the room 
and the company through the coloured glass of his 
spectacles. 

“Ah, so there you are!” he exclaimed, as he saw 


123 


The Curio Shop 

Mara. “ What do you mean by selling me an inferior 
article at a superior price, eh? For I’m not sure 
that the bowl is Lowestoft after all.”. 

The child gave a little eager cry. “Oh sir, it’s 
you and you’ve come back at last! And I can ease 
my conscience the way the priest told me I should by 
confessing my mistake, and givin’ you your money 
back!” 

“What? What’s this you’re saying? Money 
back? ... I didn’t ask for my money back. A 
bargain’s a bargain, and if I’m fool enough to be taken 
in, why then I must pay the piper even if I don’t 
dance to the tune ” 

“But ’twas all my fault,” said Mara distressfully. 
“I mistook the figures and instead of shillings I was 
sayin’ pounds.” 

The blue spectacles turned on the curio dealer 
herself. “Is that true, what she says? No intent to 
defraud? You put the price as ten shillings — your- 
self?” 

Katty reluctantly confessed that was how the 
matter stood. “But I’ll be throwin’ in something 
else you might fancy,” she added. “For sure whin 
money’s once changed hands it’s the bad luck it is to be 
givin’ it back.” 

“Umph! I shouldn’t say there was much ‘giving 
back’ in your business,” observed the customer. 
“God bless my soul! what a queer place you’ve got 
here, and — why — who’s done that V' 

He strode forward to the easel and stood before the 
picture of Mara and the Rubbish Heap. 

“By the Lord above! but that’s fine. ... A little 
crude that colouring; umph! . . . and the distance a 
bit strained . . . that arm too — wants foreshortening. 


124 


The Rubbish Heap 

But there’s life in it. The thing speaks! Whoever 
did this is going to make a name for himself! Who 
was it?” 

Christopher stepped forward, his face aglow. “I 
did, monsieur. You find it not so bad, eh?” 

“I find it damned good!” said the queer old gentle- 
man empathically. “A touch or two, a little more 
experience, and you could hold your own with any of 
the modern school. I know something about painting. 
I was an artist — once.” 

“You, monsieur! Ah, then it is that your opinion 
is of value!” 

“Where have you studied?” 

“In Paris — a little, monsieur. In Spain a few 
months — once. In England not at all.” 

“That’s no loss. England sends all her would-be 
geniuses to other countries and other teachers. It’s a 
way she has. But I detect something of the French 
school here. One moment — give me a brush!” 

Christopher handed him the brush he had thrown 
down, and the palette also. They were seized as 
voraciously as a dog might seize a coveted bone. 

“Now, young sir, look here! Watch me ” 

With deft touch he altered a line, a fold of drapery, 
threw in a shadow to the background, set the Rubbish 
Heap aquiver with a rain of sunlight that lit up its 
odd fragments. 

“There!” he exclaimed. “I ought to apologize 
for interference, but I couldn’t help it. I suppose 
this is only the study; not for exhibition?” 

“I had thought of trying the Academy,” said the 
boy. “It would not appeal to the Salon; but I have 
heard that English subjects are very successful over 
here.” 


125 


The Curio Shop 

“You're not overwhelmed with bashfulness,” 
muttered the critic. “The Academy in default of the 
Salon? Good! there’s nothing like flying high if you 
mean to fly at all. And really — with a little more 
care and touching up, that thing might get in. I’ve 
seen worse hung on the line in my day.” 

“Do you paint no more, monsieur?” asked Chris- 
topher. 

“No. I gave it up years ago. I had a ... a 
bad illness; my eyes were never more the same.” 
He threw down the brush and turned to the room. 
“It was an odd idea — to paint that .” He pointed to 
the heap. “But I congratulate you on your model.” 

He looked thoughtfully at Mara. 

“She’s from Ireland, she told me. Looks like a 
strayed shepherdess, and helps to keep a curio shop. 
It’s a funny world, my young sir. Perhaps you’ll 
discover that for yourself. These good ladies are no 
doubt wondering what the devil I’m poking my nose 
into your affairs for? But I didn’t know I was 
coming into a painting studio. I just wanted to 
have it out with my little golden-haired friend there. 
And after all there’s nothing to have out, for the 
mistake was as much an accident as the purchase. 
But bless my soul, I never did see such a queer room 
as this, and what a view it’s got!” 

He turned to the window and looked out. 

“If you’d such a thing as a field-glass now I might 
be able to discover my own peninsula!” He gave a 
queer short laugh. “I bought it and I built a house 
on it, and I live on it alone, save for an old crony as 
cracked as myself, and a stray mongrel that refuses 
to leave me. I grow my own corn, and my own vege- 
tables, and my own fruit. I want no meat as I never 


126 


The Rubbish Heap 

eat it. I have a boat that takes me to and fro the 
mainland, when I wish to see my fellow creatures, 
and for the rest I have a hobby for collecting china, 
and possess enough to set an average bull on the 
rampage! That’s me — Marmaduke Dax — at your 
service.” 

“ Marmaduke Dax ! ” exclaimed Christopher. ‘ ‘But 
I know well that name! I have seen your picture of 
The Great Snow-Storm , monsieur. Ah ! that so wonder- 
ful thing that drives the students mad! For all our 
snow is as thick as cotton wool by comparison. 
Monsieur, I am indeed honoured. I congratulate 
myself that I have made the acquaintance of so great 
an artist. Permit that I introduce my aunt, who is of 
residence in this town, and of family as old almost as 
itself.” 

The old gentleman bowed, and Miss Jane returned 
the bow with resumed stateliness. 

“My nephew introduces me, and never mentions 
my name,” she observed, and opening her reticule 
took from thence a card and handed it to the stranger. 
He read the name and bowed again. ‘ ‘ Honoured and 
delighted! Your family, madam, have a history as 
important as this queer old town, and I congratulate 
you on your nephew’s talent. But, may I be excused 
for saying, that he is less severely British than his 
name implies?” 

“I was born and educated in France,” explained 
Christopher. “I have resided with my good aunts 
but a very short time.” 

“And are you going to be a painter, or a mere 
amateur?” asked Marmaduke Dax. 

“ I should like to make Art my profession, if it were 
possible.” 


The Curio Shop 127 

“And why not; why not? What is there to 
prevent you?” 

Christopher shrugged his shoulders. “Money, 
for one thing, monsieur, for if I make pictures to sell, 
I degenerate my gift, and if I work only at my paint- 
ing, until I achieve the — art of Art — why then I 
starve, or live on the charity of others. That — 
does not commend itself to me.” 

“Christopher, my dear nephew!” implored Miss 
Jane. “Do not put things in such a painful way. 
You know you have a home always with your aunt 
Augusta and myself. And we would facilitate your 
talents as much as possible. Have we not given you 
a studio? Permitted our domestics to be models?” 

“You have been all that is kind and considerate, 
dear my aunt. But, as I have tried to explain, there 
is more — much more — I must learn before I become a 
real artist.” 

“That’s true,” said the old gentleman. “But if 
you care to work on a system that I discovered for 
myself, and made into a success also, I, well, I might 
give you a little instruction.” 

“ You , monsieur! You! But it is incredible! 
You — a vrai maitre — as we say, to so condescend ” 

“Nonsense! There’s no condescension about it. 
I feel a little interested in you if only for the originality 
shown in your choice of subject, and of your use of 
your model. Thank goodness this is not the cherry- 
cheeked simpering doll a child-picture usually presents. 
There’s a soul behind your work, and to get that into 
anything however commonplace the subject — well, 
it’s an achievement, and it promises well for your 
future.” 

“Monsieur, your words give me life!” exclaimed 


128 


The Rubbish Heap 

Christopher. “It is indeed the happy chance that 
sent me here today to work, for if I had been at my 
own studio I should never have had the so great 
honour of making your acquaintance.” 

“It’s an odd affair altogether. For I came to the 
shop by chance, and this golden-haired fairy sold me a 
piece of china that turns out faulty, and but for that 
I’d not have set foot in the town for months.” 

“ Cest le destiny ” murmured Christopher. 

“A fortunate accident,” echoed Miss Jane. 

“Sure, an’ it’s quare the way Providence does be 
puttin’ things into our heads,” interposed Katty. 
“An’ I makin’ this room the receptaycle for all me 
rubbish!” 

“And I to find a jewel of price amongst it,” said 
Christopher, laying his hand on Mara’s golden head. 

“Sure, an’ herself ’s the beginnin’ av it all!” ex- 
exclaimed Katty. “For niver another sowl had 
found this room out on me, not even himself; an’ 
now all the quality buzzin’ around the place. But 
didn’t I know from the moment I set eyes on her 
that ’twas the luck she’d be bringin’ to the house, an’ 
to all thim as has any dalins wid her. You, sir, an* 
you, Miss dear, an’ the good gintleman there, as 
bought the chaney bowl av her. Indade ’tis I’ll have 
the sore heart to be givin’ her up, but I couldn’t be 
goin’ agin her own wish for fear ’twould bring me 
misfortune. ” 

“Then she may come to me?” exclaimed Miss 
Jane eagerly. 

“She may do as she pleases, Miss. But if himself 
faults it av me, an’ claims the rights av her, well, 
you’ l have to fight that matter out between yer 
two selves!” 


129 


The Curio Shop 

“But has no one any legal claim on this child?’* 
demanded the old artist. 

“Not that I do be knowin’ of, ” said Katty. “Him- 
self found her strayin’ on the mountains, an’ a quare 
enough story she had of a dead woman, and a priest, 
and a convent where they taught her all she knows. 
An’ her name is a haythinish sort o’ one, an’ nothin’ 
to add to it, as if ’twas niver an honest father she’d 
got to own her.’’ 

“ Marah , ” said the stranger thoughtfully. “It 
means bitterness. Who would have given her such a 
name — unless ” 

He paused abruptly. All of them were looking at 
the child. And she, the most concerned in the 
discussion, was only gazing at the painting, where she 
sat throned upon a Rubbish Heap, with all the wonder 
and all the mystery of her fate in her dreaming eyes. 

9 


SCENE X 


The Lone Isle 

The harbour of Prawle sweeping outwards and past 
projecting headlands touches at one point a small 
wooded island. It has a rough landing-place and 
shelter for a boat. An odd-shaped stone house roofed 
with red tiles is visible through an opening in the 
trees. A wide verandah runs round the front and two 
sides of it, reached by shallow wooden steps. A neat 
grassy lawn sloping to the water’s edge is bordered 
by flower-beds now golden with daffodils. The posts 
of the verandah are covered with creepers and wild 
ramblers. The verandah seems to be used as a living 
room, for a table and chairs stand there. On the 
table are the remains of a meal. On a wooden shelf 
that folds outwards from the wall are scattered some 
newspapers, books, and magazines. The glory of a 
spring morning lights the scene with indescribable 
beauty. 

The Action in the Scene 

Marmaduke Dax sat in the verandah of his queer 
bungalow finishing his breakfast, and reading a 
newspaper at the same time. 

He made a quaint figure in his old flowered dressing- 
130 


The Lone Isle 


131 

gown and with a velvet skull-cap set atop of his thick 
iron-grey hair. The windows of the room within 
stood wide open, and showed a low raftered chamber, 
the walls covered so closely with pictures and old 
china, that no hint of wall-paper was visible. Its 
furnishing was of the simplest description. What it 
owed to colour was only the artistic setting of a bowl 
or cup, the tender hues of some gem of art, and the 
golden splendour of the daffodils that filled a tall 
green vase on the old gate-legged table in the centre 
of the room. 

Looked at from within, or without, the room was 
delightful; its low comfortable chairs, its big cushioned 
‘‘Chesterfield,” the bookshelves that ran all round 
the walls so that any volume was within reach of 
an outstretched hand, all bespoke individuality; the 
freedom of male instincts unfettered by female 
despotism. 

For no woman had had any hand in the arrange- 
ments and no woman had ever descended upon its 
loneliness to express wonder or pity for the hermit’s 
lot. 

As the said hermit looked up now from his news- 
paper and gazed at the beautiful living picture of 
sapphire waters, and fairy islets, he gave a queer 
contented grunt. 

“Ten years of it, and yet it’s always new and 
always lovely ! Ten years and not a soul save Chawley 
and myself to sit here and look at that. Am I wise to 
break my rule at last, and permit intrusion. ... I 
wonder? ” 

The wonder puckered his brows and shadowed 
the eyes from which the ugly blue spectacles were 
removed. Without them the face looked younger 


132 


The Rubbish Heap 

and more kindly. As he sat thus thoughtful and 
silent a queer-looking figure shambled across the 
green sward, dragging a small garden roller after it. 

The owner of “The Lone Isle” watched him for 
some moments as he moved to and fro intent on his 
task. The rustic brain has not room for more than 
one thing at a time, and Abraham Chawley’s brain 
possessed neither flexibility nor intuition. It could 
not shift its forces except under strong direction. It 
had not been required to do so since accepting the 
service of an eccentric solitary like his present master, 
and therefore had remained even duller and more 
self-centred than it might have been. 

The duties that had been given him were fulfilled 
with the regulation of a machine. He was fairly 
content; he looked upon the seasons of the year as 
so many different taskmasters, each of them taking 
it in turns to give him various details of digging and 
planting, sowing and reaping, directed by his master, 
faithfully performed and rewarded by a jug of beer, 
or cider, from the casks that were landed on the 
island at stated intervals. 

He was ill-tempered, quite stupid, and quite un- 
cultured, but he held some sort of fidelity for his 
master, and plodded from morning till night at any 
labour that was appointed him. 

On this special spring morning the glory of daffodil 
and sunshine made little impression on his mind. 
The spring had come round again and the garden 
must have more tendance, and the house a special 
scrubbing and cleaning down, as had been his duty 
in days when the sea and a sterner master had ruled 
his fate. He had hated the sea and feared that 
master who had the soul of a pirate king and the 


The Lone Isle 


133 


merciless creed of a tyrant. After such an experience, 
those ten halcyon years with Marmaduke Dax were 
a haven after storms. But he would never say so, 
or indeed betray in any fashion that he was grateful 
or contented. If a stone falls into a tidal estuary 
it gets buried in the mud sinking deeper with every 
flowing tide. The mind of Abraham Chawley was 
something like that tide-covered stone; and the 
passing of years meant only deeper burial; more 
passive sluggishness. 

He heard his master’s voice calling him, as he 
dragged the creaking roller to and fro the velvet turf. 
He paused in his labour and looked up at the verandah. 

“Leave that alone, I’ll do it. Come and clear 
the table. I’m expecting visitors.” 

The old man dropped the roller handle and shuffled 
across the lawn and up the steps of the verandah 
without a word. 

Marmaduke Dax rose as he came up. He lit his 
pipe, and then stood watching the slow methodical 
movements of his queer servitor. 

“ Did you hear what I said, Chawley?” he asked. 

“Ay. But ’twas no bizness o’ mine.” 

“Well, I suppose it isn’t, but still I thought you 
might be interested. It’s the first time, you know.” 

“You’re a freeman; you can please yourself.” 

“Not to be drawn, I see! Tell me, Chawley, don’t 
you think that something young and gay and happy 
would cheer up the place now and then?” 

The dull expressionless eyes looked up from under 
their wrinkled lids. 

“Cheer up? That means messin’ and interferin’. 
Don’t let ’em come my way. I never could abide 
children!” 


134 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Nor I — so I thought. But it seems they differ, 
Chawley. One child at least does." 

“How many be’s a cornin’ ?” questioned the old 
man. 

“Two. But they’re not both children.’’ 

“Then what for did ye say they was?” 

“I only said visitors. I wanted them to see the 
island, and the house, and perhaps yourself. They 
can’t believe we’re playing at Crusoe and Man Friday 
here, in this go-ahead twentieth century.” 

“Well, you can show ’em over, I suppose,” was 
the dogged response. “As I said afore it’s no bizness 
o’ mine.” 

“It is. You must get some luncheon for them. 
They’re young, and the young have healthy appetites.” 

“Ain’t bread and cheese good enough?” 

Marmaduke considered the question thoughtfully. 
“I’m afraid not. Is that all you can do?” 

“The brown pullet’s laid an egg or two, and there’s 
ground salad ready, and some o’ they winter apples.” 

“Umph! a meagre feast, but it must do. I wish I 
had thought of bringing over some cakes and sweet 
stuff when I was over in the town the other day. 
Here I say, Chawley, wait a bit!” 

For the old man, having put the breakfast things 
together on the tray, was making for the kitchen 
regions. He turned and stood holding out the tray 
as a protest at interference with an ordered routine. 

“You’ll do your best. Boil the eggs, and set out 
the bread and cheese and the apples, and — oh — milk 
I suppose for the little girl. The young man may 
like cider. But put it all here; on the table, not inside. 
Well, that’s all now.” 

Chawley departed, and his master threw off the 


The Lone Isle 


135 

dressing-gown and went down the steps to the lawn 
and commenced to roll it in a leisurely fashion. 

“I suppose they’ll come? Curiosity would bring 
them, the boy at any rate. But it’s the child I want 
to see. I wish she didn’t remind me so of — of some- 
thing I’d rather not remember.” 

It could not have been anything pleasant, for he 
suddenly shivered even in the golden warmth, and an 
odd grey look came into his face. Then, with vigor- 
ous determination he went on rolling the grass, putting 
into it so much physical energy that thought was 
held in temporary abeyance. 

The task was finished just as a small sailing-boat 
came up to the landing-place. In it were seated 
Christopher and Mara. The youth, who had piloted 
them over to the island, fastened up the boat, and 
they sprang out. 

The owner of the little territory called out a welcome 
and came forward to meet them. “You found it 
then?” he said. 

“Oh yes. The boatman, he knew,” said Christo- 
pher. 4 4 1 described the house with the red roof, as you 
told me. But — how charming a place of residence!” 
he went on, glancing from point to point, and ending 
with the house itself. “Ah! but this is the ideal for 
an artist like yourself! The beauty, the solitude; the 
colours of sea and sky and distance! Monsieur, it 
cannot be true, as you said, that you work no 
more?” 

“It is quite true, my young friend. I resigned my 
brush for sake of a foolish vow I made. One does such 
things once in a lifetime perhaps. Besides there 
was no incentive. For fame I cared nothing, of 
wealth I had enough. And in my life there was no 


136 The Rubbish Heap 

one near or dear to me, to incite me to accomplish 
more than I had accomplished.” 

He turned to Mara. “What do you think of my 
island, you maid of Erin?” he asked. 

“It is like somewhere that I have known before,” 
she said wonderingly. Her eyes gazed out at the 
width of water, the far-off headlands, the queer little 
islets, and came back again to the green patch of 
lawn and the borders of nodding daffodils. 

“It is strange you should feel that too!” exclaimed 
Marmaduke Dax. “Very strange. For when I saw 
this place first I felt it was not new to me. Yet I 
could never remember having been here before, and 
then I thought it must be because it was like a part 
of Ireland that I had once visited. A queer lonely 
place. I went there to sketch mountain scenery. 
I had been to Wales and to Scotland, and I 
wanted to catch the magic of the Emerald Isle, if I 
could.” 

“You told me you had the sorrowful memories of 
that country, ” said the child. “I mind it well.” 

“Yes, I told you that. God knows why! I’m not 
given to confidence as a rule. Well, since you’re here 
I must show you how I live, and what my dominion 
contains. ” 

He led them through the garden, and the tiny 
orchard, past the poultry yard and cowshed, and the 
newly planted fields. “You remember I told you 
my territory was self-supporting,” he observed. 
“It keeps me well employed, and Chawley also. By 
the way you haven’t seen Chawley yet. He’s a 
crusty old soul, but devoted and trustworthy. And it 
wasn’t easy to find a brother hermit you may suppose.” 

“I cannot understand it, that you, who once were 


The Lone Isle 


i37 


so famous, should give all up and resign yourself to 
solitude,” said Christopher. “Not but what it is 
a very exquisite solitude. Still, one’s fellow man is 
of necessity one would suppose.” 

“You are young, my boy, and you have all youth’s 
belief in accepted theories. I have created my own 
theories, and made my own life.” 

“But do you never feel lonely? The need of some- 
one to speak with, to exchange thoughts, ideas?” 

“I exchange them with Chawley, or myself. I 
was never one who made friends easily, or cared 
for companionship. Besides, I have books enough 
to fill all my leisure time. A man needs no better 
friends.” 

They walked on again; passed through a belt of 
trees, and ascended a stretch of rough ground that 
sloped abruptly to a little wooden shanty built on the 
top. 

“This is my ‘conning tower,’” said the old artist. 
“From it I can see the winding curves of channel 
stretching away to the marshes of Westerham. See, 
north, south, east, west, isn’t it wonderful! Turn 
where you may, the shining water, the curving coast, 
the bold dark headlands. For this alone I would 
have paid the price asked for my few acres. And 
yet ” 

“Ah!” cried Christopher, “I know, I feel what you 
would say. And yet — all that beauty tempting the 
artist, and rejected by the man.” 

“Something like that,” said Marmaduke Dax. 
“And now let us return to the house, and to such a 
luncheon as my worthy henchman can provide.” 

Christopher would have loved to linger in a scene 
so “well composed,” and so exquisite, and Mara too 


I3« 


The Rubbish Heap 

had little desire to leave a spot that puzzled and 
tormented her with memories. But their host led 
the way back, without further explanation; they were 
compelled to follow. 

On the verandah Abraham Chawley had laid the 
table, and set on it the simple viands which made up 
his master’s daily menu. He was standing contem- 
plating his efforts when the guests arrived on the 
scene and necessitated introduction. 

To Mara the inner room, and its wonderful contents, 
seemed far more important than any food. She stood 
before the open window gazing at the china, and the 
paintings, and the bookshelves, as if each represented 
a new wonder. 

“But what a room!” cried Christopher, with a 
hushed rapture in his voice. “Ah! monsieur, it is 
like a dream of art and beauty, yet with the comfort 
of material things so delicately suggested. This is 
you. Your taste and skill put into living form, one 
would say. I — no longer wonder that you are happy 
in seclusion, cher maitre .” 

“Lunch is ready,” interrupted Chawley gruffly. 
“Does the young man want cider, or ale?” 

Christopher turned quickly to the odd speaker, 
and then laughed. “Ah, that dejeuner; it is seem- 
ingly of more importance than this so enchanting 
place!” 

“What will you drink?” asked his host. “I have 
no wine. But cider ” 

“Water will suffice. What you have mentioned 
I know not at all. Cider? Is it like your good 
British beer?” 

“No, it’s made from apples. I never take it, or 
the ale either. But I get a small cask of them sent 


The Lone Isle 


139 


over now and then for Chawley. You are sure you 
wouldn’t try one or other?” 

“Thank you, no. I prefer the simple meal as you 
have it there. It suits this so charming place. Nature 
and peace, and beauty everywhere. Ah, monsieur, 
if I lived here but how I should paint!” 

“Are you so dependent on surroundings?” asked 
Marmaduke Dax, as he seated himself at the table. 

“I fear that is so. I have made myself a studio, 
an atelier de luxe , ” he said laughing. “I have found 
it quite inspiring, but now — perhaps not. For this 
scene, this room, they are so beautiful, I suffer dis- 
enchantment with my attic yonder.” 

“I’m not saying it is so wonderful,” said Mara, 
“but you were very proud and pleased with it 
once. ” 

“ One is pleased until one sees something that makes 
one a little less pleased,” observed Christopher, accept- 
ing cheese and salad from his host. “Monsieur, will 
you ever honour me, I wonder, with a visit of return ? 
I may then show you my poor efforts, my studies 
of effect, as I call them. I have painted one other 
picture of Mara, there, which, to my mind, far excels 
that of the Rubbish Heap. But — I may be wrong. 
One feels sometimes so much more than one can 
express.” 

“That is at once the success and despair of Art,” 
said Marmaduke Dax. “But it is a more hopeful 
sign to doubt than to be content. Yes, I shall 
certainly pay a visit to your studio one day. I want 
to see exactly what you can do. And now satisfy 
my curiosity on another point ? What of this child 
here? bias she left the curio shop ? ” 

“Yes, monsieur, the day after that you have 


140 


The Rubbish Heap 

made the rencontre. It was extraordinary to me, that 
suggestion of my aunt. For she had said no word 
of it, and I am not so sure that the good Augusta 
approves. But Mara has now come to us. She is to 
be taught all the good sensible British things that 
go to make your so excellent British education. 
She is to be what that good petite aunt of mine calls 
‘an interest of her life/ For the part of myself I 
am well pleased, for I have subjects, studies of all 
sorts for which she is my model. I have a scheme ’ ’ 

He related it rapidly as he had already related it 
to the child, to his aunt Jane, to the staid Tomlinson. 

“ Voyez done,” he concluded, “by that means I 
gain an income which shall help me to the true study 
of Art. France, Munich, all these I will visit. Then, 
perhaps, it arrives that one day I do something 
great!” 

“That ignis fatuus we all follow! A pretty dance 
it leads us!” 

“Still, who would not wear out his shoes — parbleu ! 
his feet also — in that enchanted dance, sooner than 
never have heard the tune of its witchery.” 

“ I felt like that once. I danced my shoes to thread- 
paper and my feet into blisters, and the months and 
the weeks and the days were all blurred into just that 
hour of the vision and that magic of the tune. Heavens ! 
how long ago it was!” 

A sort of film came over his eyes. They were not 
seeing anything around or at hand, only a glory of 
far-off days; a vision rising out of the mountain mists, 
and the far green hills, seeming to promise a meeting 
that was ever and always a promise unfulfilled. 

Silence fell upon the little group so strangely met 
and associated. To the boy it was a silence pregnant 


The Lone Isle 


141 

with emotions that could find no vent; to the man 
it was only the prison cell he had made for himself, 
that self-closed cell which of all man makes, or 
chooses, is the most difficult to open. 


AN INTERLUDE 


Mara Roams 

Mara had slipped away from the table, and gone 
into the wonderful room which had seemed to call 
her all the time. 

She moved from place to place, touching a book, a 
piece of china, a curio from Japan, an idol from India, 
gazing at the tiny pictures studding the walls, each a 
gem in its way. It seemed wonderful to her that a 
single individual should possess so much that was 
beautiful; as well as the art that had known so well 
how to arrange the setting of its treasures. 

For the room and the house and the island seemed 
each a part of this wondrous shrine, and her mind 
could not separate them from one another. But 
as she flitted to and fro, or caught the view without 
through the open windows, that odd feeling of previous 
acquaintance with this place again returned. It 
seemed as if she knew the island, the misty hills, the 
sapphire waters, and knew also that something was 
waiting for her here, and that she would have to go 
and meet it, although she was quite ignorant of its 
nature or design. 

Once or twice the feeling of Approach or Discovery 
thrilled her as with terror. She did not want to know 
something which she was being compelled to know. 

142 


Mara Roams 


i43 


“It’s as it was in the mountains, there beyond,’ * 
she whispered in sudden fear. “There were things 
that came to me out of the night, and songs that the 
wind would be sighin’. I wonder is it the spirit of her 
that’s gone callin’ to me to come to her? . . . And 
why should it be callin’ to me here where my foot has 
not been set till this day?” 

Her eyes asked that question of the beautiful in- 
animate things that made this room a treasure-house 
of art. They gave no answer. The books were 
silent between their costly bindings, the quaint in- 
struments of many countries held only muted strings 
and soundless music. 

She singled out an Irish harp among them, hung 
against the wall with a ribbon of green, one string 
only left of the complement of twelve. At that she 
gazed wonderingly. It seemed out of place amongst 
the foreign knick-knacks, though it hung alone in a 
corner to itself. Coming closer to that corner she 
saw that a broken easel rested against the wall, 
beneath the harp. Evidently this nook had a story 
of its own, and a locality, for as she continued to 
investigate she noted that two sketches hung on 
either side the harp. As she looked into them that 
odd sense of familiar scenes rushed back. For surely 
those mountains, that atmosphere of loneliness and 
mystery, that queer little cabin, with its broken 
window, and its patch of nettles and weeds, these 
things made the atmosphere and the tragedy of her 
own land. 

She remembered how the purchaser of the Lowestoft 
bowl had told her he too knew her land, and had 
brought from it some mournful memories. Had they 
part and meaning in this harp of broken strings ; those 


144 


The Rubbish Heap 

wistful mountains ; that old black- thorn cudgel stand- 
ing by the fireplace ? Involuntarily she took the stick 
in her hand, and turned it round and round. 

“For certain that’s Irish,” she said below her 
breath. “Herself had the like of it hung there 
behind the door of the cabin. For protection, so she 
said, though I cannot call to mind that ever any one 
unfriendly would be coming to the place at any time.” 

She put the stick back again in its corner, but the 
pictures still held her fascinated. She wondered if 
they were his work? If to paint such scenes he had 
gone on that Irish tour, from which he had returned 
to this life of solitude? “ It’s no business of mine, and 
it would be bad manners to be askin’ questions,” 
ran her thoughts. “But, all the same, I would like 
to know what it was that could change the life of a 
man, and yet be a thing he’d want to remember?” 

Wrapped in speculations she continued to stand 
in that same corner, weaving in her childish brain 
some sort of story such as those of the fairy legends 
she read so often. She did not hear the entrance of 
the others, who had suddenly missed her. She did 
not catch the momentary flash of surprise in the old 
artist’s eyes, nor see the gesture which checked 
Christopher’s hasty words. 

So absorbed was she that they came almost within 
touching distance before she heard their steps. Then 
she turned, and catching Christopher’s arm pointed to 
the little genre picture on the wall. 

“Ah — look there!” she said. “For it’s like where 
I came from. I might be standing there again and 
looking up to the Sorrowful Mountain as herself told 
me it was named. For the skies weep over it, and the 
mists trail their shadows like the long veils of the 


Mara Roams 


i45 

mourners at a bury in', and the valley below ’tis all 
desolate since the time of the Great Famine.” 

“ Nom de Dieu / ” muttered Christopher. '‘But you 
see all that I have tried to see. The history that is 
for me to make of the Fairy who strayed from her 
people and cannot find the way of return!” 

He turned swiftly to Marmaduke Dax. “Ah, 
monsieur, if it might be that I could show you that 
picture! It is, so far, the best thing I yet create; 
only it lacks what the child has just described, the 
background of the ‘Sorrowful Mountain/ That 
haze of tears and trailing shadows which are even as 
the veils of the mourners of the dead. Ah, monsieur, 
if you would help me to get that ! To find what you 
found, and have the power to make live again on a 
little square of canvas.” 

He pointed to the little picture, seeing in it all the 
meaning he desired, and crudely envious of the magic 
brush that could make a twelve-inch square of canvas 
live and tell so much. 

But a look of age and horror had come over the face 
of Marmaduke Dax. He turned to Mara. “Why 
— of all that is here to see have you chosen — that!” 
he exclaimed. 

“It seemed to draw me here; to speak to me,” she 
faltered. “I — I could not help but come. And like 
my own home it is, and the sadness and the loneliness 
is what is in my own heart.” 

“In your own heart, ” echoed the old painter, as he 
looked at her trembling lips. “You who are but a 
child, and have everything that can bring happiness 
to childhood! What do you know of sadness and 
loneliness?” 

“They are always here, ” she said, laying one small 


10 


146 


The Rubbish Heap 

hand against her childish breast. “ I never remember 
a time when the shadows would lift.” 

* ‘ I wonder what tragedy touches your young life ? ” he 
muttered. “You are unlike any child I have ever seen. ’ ’ 

“But yes, I have always said that,” interposed 
Christopher. “And we have promised to ourselves 
that some day we set out to her own land and there 
make the search which shall perhaps end the mystery. 
See then, monsieur, how everything works to me for 
my Art, even this, I have called the Great Adventure. 
I make the discovery of this child, of the lumber room, 
and the Rubbish Heap. I appeal to her, to the good 
Katty, to the sea-lion of commerce, and to my good 
and perplexed aunts, and all of them I bring to my 
own way to think. And to this my Art and to this 
my most precious model comes now the good chance 
to meet you, monsieur. You, who best of all, because 
you are greatest of all can help me most. ” 

“In what way?” 

“Ah, monsieur, there it is expressed for me! Teach 
me to paint a background like that, with all it speaks 
of mystery and sadness, and I shall be the most 
thankful as the most grateful of all those who remember 
your name. Pardon me that I so badly express what 
I feel, that I pour out this rodomontade pell-mell 
from my so excited brain ; but you too have lived your 
hour; you know what it is I mean! What came to 
you in the snow-storm of the Highland pass it speaks 
to me also from the tragic gloom of that strange 
mountain. And centred in it all — Mara and her 
story — the child who has lost home and people; who 
gazes at the shrouding mists, and the veiling shadows, 
and asks of Fate: ‘What then am I, and whither do I 
go?’” 


Mara Koams 


i47 


“The child, always the child,” muttered the old 
artist. “To each and all of us she has brought her 
message. For her sake I have broken my rule of life; 
the reserve of thirteen lonely years. For had I not 
seen her face in your picture I should not have troubled 
about your work. But having opened my heart once 
more I will do for you what I have never done for any 
student of art in all my life. I will teach you all I 
know myself, if you will take the trouble to learn.” 

“Monsieur, you are loading me with a debt I can 
never repay!” 

“ Don’t be so sure of that. The future may have a 
surprise in store for you, even as the present had one 
for me. I have closed one door. I open another. 
Perhaps it too may only lead to disillusion ; to sorrow. 
But you, my young sir, you hold the key to it. In 
you I may relive the joy of success.” 

He turned away, and walked to the other end of 
the room, and stood before a high old-fashioned 
bureau of many drawers. He found the key and 
opened one, and took out some sheets of cardboard, 
and a box of paints. Then he called Christopher. 

“We will sit out there in the verandah,” he said, 
“and you shall have your first lesson from me. Later 
on, you may bring canvas and easel. I have none.” 

“I thought I saw ” 

“Oh — that is broken. It is no use. I did it to 
remind myself of my vow. Now, are you ready? 
What are you looking at? Oh, the child? She must 
amuse herself while we work. Perhaps she would 
like to interview Chawley? As he dislikes children 
it would be amusing to see if our child can work the 
spell for him that she has done for us.” 

He called Mara, and told her she was free to roam 


148 


The Rubbish Heap 

house, and garden, and kitchen regions as she pleased. 
“But return here at four o’clock, and we will have 
some tea. Now go and make friends with the ogre of 
my citadel. You love fairy tales I know; ask him to 
tell you one.” 

Abraham Chawley was busy in the kitchen washing 
up the plates and dishes he had removed from the 
luncheon table. It was a clean and cheerful place, 
with a stone-flagged floor, and an oak dresser covered 
with fine china, and a shelf of pots and pans and 
shining tins set above the sink. He was croaking a 
queer old tune as he washed and set the plates in a pile 
on the deal table. Suddenly he paused, and stared. 

A small hand was taking up the plates one by one, 
drying them on the dish-cloth he had flung down, and 
setting them apart in a neat row. He drew one rough 
hand from out the soapy water, and turned sharply 
round. 

“ Yv r hy, who be you ? ” he demanded sharply. “And 
how come you here?” 

“I saw you through the door, and I thought I 
might be helpin’. It’s what I’ve never seen a man 
doin’ before.” 

“ Ah, ’tis wonnerful what a mort o’ things a man can 
do, an’ he’s put to ’t. But run you back there to the 
parlour. I want no help, an’ I want no children 
messin’ around.” 

“He — said you had no liking for children,” ob- 
served the intruder. “But I will be finishin’ these, 
seein’ I’ve begun.” 

“ Oh — will you ? Is that the situation ? ” 

He returned to his task without further remon- 
strance, and the deft little hands took plate after plate 


Mara Roams 


149 


and dried them, and piled them together according 
to size in a fashion he had never troubled to observe. 

“Seems you’re handy for a maid o’ your years. 
How many have ye, all told?” 

“They’re sayin’ I’m twelve years of age.” 

“You have a queer-soundin’ talk. What’s your 
country?” 

“Ireland, over the sea there.” 

“Ah, ’tis a curious outlandish country, so I’ve 
heard.” 

“You’re not knowin’ it then?” 

“If you mean I’ve set foot in the bogs, which I’m 
told are all it’s got for land, I do not know it.” 

“There are mountains also,” said the child, “and 
valleys, green as the little patch you have out there. 
And dark lakes where the wild birds flock; it’s very 
beautiful, an’ very sad.” 

“I thought you was a common child. I see you’re 
not. Is that young forrin-speakin’ man your brother ?” 

“Mr. Christopher, is it? Oh no, only I live in the 
same house now, with his aunts. The kind ladies 
they are. But I have no one belongin’ to myself. 
Shall I be puttin’ these plates back on the dresser 
there?” 

“No, you couldn’t reach it.” 

“I’dbetakin’ a chair.” 

“Well now, there’s more sense in your head than I 
could suppose. But I’ll set the ware in place myself, 
and then I’ve a bit of hoeing to get through in the 
kitchen garden. You’d best be goin’ back to ’em, in 
the verandy there.” 

“I’d be likin’ to see you hoe the ground, the way 
I’ve seen Herself do it when there was potaties to be 
put in. I could help you do that too.” 


The Rubbish Heap 


150 

“What makes you be pushin’ your nose in where 
you’re not asked? Don’t ye know I’m a bad-tempered 
evil man? I was a pirate once.” 

“What would that be meanin’?” 

“You don’t know? Well, there’s ignorance for ye! 
A pirate is a cruel bold man who sails the seas, and 
captures other ships, and helps himself to what they’re 
cargoin’. Murder he does too, not caring much who 
it is, man or woman or child. Oh ! a evil-doing man, 
and hangin’ be his fate often as not.” 

The wide soft eyes looked wonderingly at the grim 
face. “I think that’s only a story ye’re tellin’ me, 
like the ogres and the fairies I do be readin’ of. If it’s 
a bad man ye are would the kind gentleman make 
so much of ye? He was sayin’ it’s many years ye’ve 
lived together, just you and himself.” 

Chawley seized up the remaining dishes and put 
them in their respective places. It seemed to him 
that with all the will in the world to paint himself as 
an undesirable companion he could not get rid of this 
intruder. 

“For all you know,” he said, with a last effort at 
terrifying, “I might be givin’ you a clout on the side 
of the head an’ then stuffing you into the ground, while 
I’m digging the potato bed. There’d be none to hear, 
and none to see. Pirates is vicious, and as lief as not 
would make an end o’ any one they’d no liking for!” 

“Then you’re not after likin’ me?” said the child 
sadly. “I’m sorry for that, but I will go away if you 
do not want me?” 

“ Ay, go away. But it might as well be that way as 
another.” 

He pointed to the kitchen garden, and seized up 
his gardening implements from the outhouse. The 


Mara Roams 


151 

child looked after the shambling figure in momentary- 
indecision. Then summoning up her courage she 
followed. It was so long since she had seen potatoes 
cut up and planted, and smelt the good brown earth. 
Everything here was simple and natural, unlike the 
formal garden of Agglestone House. It all appealed 
to her store of memories set into wistful motion by 
that picture of the mountains. 

“If I could live here I think I should be happy,” 
she said softly, and Chawley, looking up from his 
digging, gave a little gasp of horror. 

“Live here ? . . . Don’t ye ever be thinkin’ o’ such a 
thing. It’s no place for any sort o’ female, even if she 
be ancient and respectable. What put such a notion 
into your head?” 

“It feels more like home than any place I’ve been 
seein’ since I crossed the seas, an’ left it behind.” 

“Now, look ye here,” said Chawley warningly, 
“you mustn’t suffer such fancies to get into your 
head. A powerful dangerous thing it is when any 
female, good or bad, is for thrusting herself in where 
she’s not wanted. The master and I don’t want ’em; 
never missed ’em we haven’t in nigh on fourteen year. 
I told him only this morning that no good could come 
o’ breakin’ up habits, and lettin’ strangers in where 
angels durstn’t tread, which is scripter, so I believe.” 

“If ’tis scripture, that means it’s from the Holy 
Book, an’ if you’re knowin’ that why it’s no pirate 
ye are, nor ogre either, as the good gentleman was 
namin’ ye, an’ if ye’ll lend me the little hoe that’s 
lyin’ there why — I’ll be helpin’ ye here the same 
as I did in the kitchen. You see I’m not afeared of you 
at all.” 

Chawley leant on his spade, and looked at the bold 


152 


The Rubbish Heap 

speaker with an amazement little short of terror. 
Then he took off his battered old hat and scratched 
his scanty locks. 

“I’ve seen a many o’ ’em,” he muttered. “Tall 
and short and young and old, and it’s always the same 
way; when they takes a thing into their heads they 
sticks to it — ay, that they do. An’ all this peaceful 
place, an’ honest labour as I’ve spent on it to be up- 
rooted for a whimsy!” 

He raised his spade threateningly. “I don’t know 
who ye are, or what ye be, but there’s nought betwixt 
your life an’ my wrath if so I choose to let the black 
mood master me!” 

But the soft eyes never quailed; only a small hand 
stretched itself towards his arm and drew it down and 
the spade with it. 

“I’m wishin’ you no harm, Chawley,” she said, “so 
why should you hurt me?” 

Very roughly he shook off that protesting clasp. 
“I hate ye all,” he muttered. “Young an’ old. 
Where a woman is, trouble is. Don’t ye be cornin’ 
here and interferin’ with me again or it’ll be bad for 
you. I’m well content with the way things goes in 
this place. I don’t hold with changes.” 

“But I am not going to change anything, ” she said. 

“So you say. But who’s to tell. Anyway you’ve 
had warnin’. Any femayle woman as sets foot on this 
island bain’t no good to me, nor the master either.” 

Mara’s head drooped. She had received so much 
kindness of late that this rebuff hurt her sensitiveness. 

“I am sorry you’re not likin’ me,” she said, and 
turned away to where something brown and shaggy was 
wagging an impatient tail. A queer old mongrel 
ambled forward, and the two exchanged greetings. 


Mara Roams 


153 


“I think you’re Irish too,” said the child softly. 
“Anyways you’re more civil than him I’ve been speak- 
ing to.” 

Chawley stared at the pair with lack-lustre eyes. 
He had come to the end of his resources. 

“Well — I’m domned!” he muttered. “First the 
master; then the dog. Rot me, if e’er I see’d the 
like!” 


SCENE XI 


The Drawing-room in Agglestone House. The Same 
Evening 

Miss Augusta and Miss Jane in their usual dinner 
dress are sitting on each side of the fireplace. Miss 
Augusta has a piece of Berlin wool-work in her hands. 
Miss Jane has thrown down her crochet on the couch 
on which she is seated. Christopher is beside her. 
Tomlinson is handing coffee from a silver tray. 

The Action in the Scene 

“My dear Jane,” observed the eldest Miss Aggie- 
stone, “ I quite understand your, ahem — point. But 
I beg to differ from your opinion. I could see no 
reason for your adopting this child, as you expressed 
it. I am perfectly sure there are interests and duties 
sufficient to fill your empty hours without adding 
another responsibility to the establishment. How- 
ever, setting my own objections aside for your sake 
and that of our nephew, I really cannot give the per- 
mission you now request. The girl’s place is in the 
housekeeper’s room at such times as your instruc- 
tions, or Christopher’s paint brushes, do not demand 
her presence. To have her up here in the drawing- 
room is quite another matter. ” 
i54 


I n Agglestone House 155 

“But she behaves so nicely,” murmured Miss 
Jane. ‘ ‘ And I so much wanted to see her in the frock 
Christopher has designed. You — you really would 
not know her, it makes such a difference.” 

Miss Augusta put down her coffee cup, and quoted 
Dr. Watts: 

“ When the poor sheep and silkworm wore 
That very covering long before. ” 

Christopher laughed suddenly. “Tres chbre tante , 
the opinion anglaise as to what is convenable , but 
that is funny ! Of the day, see you, the little girl has 
the freedom of the house ; the little dejeuner with me 
and aunt Jane in my studio; the lesson hours in the 
salle d' etude, as one calls it ; the run of the garden for 
exercise, where indeed I have seen the good Tomlinson 
make also the promenade as company. But, after 
dinner, that most solemn British affair, no more is she 
seen. And now that Jeanne demands it, you say you 
do not permit. ” 

“You may leave the room, Tomlinson,” com- 
manded Miss Augusta, observing a twinkle of amuse- 
ment in solemn eyes that was not in conformity with 
duties. The butler put down his tray and withdrew. 
Then his mistress returned to the discussion. 

“I have asked you more than once to put the pre- 
fix ‘aunt’ before your quaint pronunciation of my 
sister’s name,” she said. “It is not considered 
respectful to address relations in that unceremonious 
fashion — especially before one’s domestics. ” 

“But she minds it not,” said the boy, with his odd 
smile. “ We are not so formal together any longer, 
the little aunt and myself. Tiens 1 but it will arrive 
that I make her bon camarade; a sister, a com- 


156 The Rubbish Heap 

panion, so well we get on together, is it not, 
Jeanne?” 

Miss Jane, glancing adoringly at her nephew’s 
face, intimated that such was the state of affairs, de- 
spite mid- Victorian strictures, and the stern repression 
of past years. 

'‘There! what did I say? Besides ‘Jeanne’ is 
so much prettier than Jane, and ‘aunt ’ is so dignified a 
prefix that I find it not easy to say except, of course, to 
you — Madame Augustine.” 

Miss Augusta was conscious of a little jealous 
pang. From the first hour of his arrival this strange 
boy had charmed her chilled and repressed nature; 
had overthrown barriers of restraint, and laughed 
at the stately etiquette which bounded her life by 
set rules. Perhaps because her sister was younger, 
not only in years but feeling, and less given to form- 
ality and repression, they had got on so well together. 
It seemed to her, looking at a happy interested face, 
and recognizing a certain independence of manner, 
that Jane was extraordinarily different. This advent 
of the child too, it had been carried out almost on 
the eve of its suggestion. It had overthrown her 
scruples and become a recognized incident of their 
lives. Against Jane herself, Miss Augusta felt capa- 
ble of holding her own, but Jane and Christopher 
combined, and the lovely face of the little model 
beseeching her interest, were too much. She felt 
herself yielding inch after inch of cherished territory, 
submitting again and again to innovations; looking 
on with passive bewilderment at some change of dress, 
some new mode of coiffure on the part of her sister. 
Any remark only produced — “Oh, Christopher sug- 
gested it,” “Christopher did it,” for, indeed, that 


157 


In Agglestone House 

extraordinary boy had not been above using brush and 
comb to adjust Jane’s fair ringlets, and form a chignon 
which was most becoming. 

He had not offered any such advice to aunt “ Au- 
gustine, ” as he now called her, or perad ventured on a 
rearrangement of the bandeaux and stiff plaits to which 
she clung so faithfully. She told herself she would 
of course never have permitted such a liberty, but in 
her secret heart she knew it would at least have 
meant interest. 

The discussion, at the present moment, had origin- 
ated in Miss Jane’s request that Mara might come up 
for half an hour into the drawing-room to hear Chris- 
topher sing. The child loved music passionately, and 
knew no greater delight than to listen to it. Even 
Miss Jane’s weak interpretation of the Lieder ohne 
Worte seemed wonderful, but Christopher’s singing 
was a joy that thrilled her soul, and brought the 
tears to her wistful eyes. 

But Miss Augusta saw only in the stray waif a sort 
of translated beggar-maid. The recipient of charity; 
the nameless vagrant of unknown antecedents. Quite 
against her principles and wishes had been this 
“adoption” as her sister called it, but still she had 
eyes to see, and a heart to feel, and neither of them 
could deny Mara’s beauty or Mara’s strange charm. 
But she felt she must put her foot down on occasion, 
and the present moment seemed the fitting one for 
such a proceeding. 

“Perhaps you will sing us something, my dear 
nephew?” she said, as he put down his empty coffee 
cup and strolled towards the piano. 

“With pleasure, my aunt. But as it is that I am 
too unselfish to deprive any one who likes music of 


158 The Rubbish Heap 

the chance to hear it, may one request that the door is 
set open? The poor child we discuss, can thus have 
her little pleasure. An audience at second hand is 
better than none at all. ” 

Miss Augusta’s frigid expression changed to one of 
extreme annoyance. She felt she had been put in the 
wrong, and stood convicted of selfishness. For a 
moment her heart did battle with her principles. 
Then she rose with her usual stately air, and rang 
the bell. 

“Nothing, I assure you, dear Christopher, is 
further from my wishes than to deprive any one of an 
innocent pleasure,” she said frigidly. “And your 
expression ‘ at second hand ’ seems to me curiously 
impolite, considering your aunt Jane and myself 
are present. By all means let the child come in, as 
she seems necessary to your performance. I per- 
ceive that she is becoming quite a person of import- 
ance in the house. Ah — Tomlinson, it is you? Will 
you remove the coffee cups and tell Mara to come up 
to the drawing-room for half an hour.” 

Tomlinson gave his usual “I will, madam,” and 
glanced at Christopher, who was standing by the 
piano, turning over a pile of songs. 

“Gets his own way all the time, ” he said to himself. 
“The house is becoming ‘ bouleyversed, ’ to use his 
own expression. Models in the drawing-room! — 
what next?” 

Miss Augusta was asking that question also. What 
next — indeed? She could find no precedent in her 
strict code of etiquette for the treatment of such a 
situation. She counted Mara an “inferior,” and 
classed her much as she did Cherry Menlove or the 


In Agglestone House 159 

prim parlour-maid. It was a severe blow to her 
theories when the drawing-room was suggested as 
suitable for this new inmate of the establishment. 
Her treasured volume of Etiquette of Life and Morals , 
assured her that high birth and good breeding were 
the privileges of the Few, though habits of gentility 
might be acquired by those of inferior position. She 
wondered if Mara was acquiring such habits, and if 
Jane contemplated training her on the lines that she 
herself had been trained. 

In supposing this, however, she did her sister an 
injustice. Miss Jane had no desire to make Mara 
the artificial subject of arbitrary traditions. She 
had suffered too much from such traditions herself. 
Miss Augusta had inherited a stock of them, and 
deemed it her duty to impress as well as to display 
them on all occasions. She had often assured her 
patient sister that she was armed for any position as 
for any situation in life. That the announcement of 
Royalty or the intrusion of an Ethiopian would find 
her equally capable of a composed and dignified 
acceptance of the contretemps. 

“A lady has no superiors,” she would observe 
grandiloquently. “A queen can be no more to her 
equals than we to ours. There is no need to affect 
airs and graces, or adopt fine language. Such things 
are merely the veneer of vulgarians. Providence has 
placed us in a position that commands a certain defer- 
ence from our neighbours and acquaintances. We 
must always remember they are less fortunate. It 
is their misfortune, not our fault. ” 

Poor Miss Jane had often felt bewildered over 
maxims and precepts, and rigid rules for behaviour. 
They seemed to her to create the very atmosphere 


160 The Rubbish Heap 

of artificiality which her sister condemned in others. 
When Miss Augusta expressed a hope that she would 
keep Mara “in her place,” and train her accordingly, 
she had much resented it. The very simplicity and 
delicacy of the child’s nature seemed to imply a natur- 
al refinement. Why ignore or interfere with it? 

Yet her sister rigorously decreed that she must be 
kept in the servants’ hall when not in the studio. 
Miss Jane rebelled inwardly, but she had not the cour- 
age to say what Christopher had said. Neither had she 
expected Miss Augusta’s acquiescence in the matter. 

However, when Tomlinson retired in his “arch- 
bishop manner,” as Chistopher called it, she felt a 
little thrill of excitement. Miss Augusta was to be 
surprised for once. Perhaps — after this — she would 
cease to regard Mara as one of those “ inferiors,” 
whose place was below stairs. 

Her expectation was gratified. Miss Augusta 
looked up as the door opened; stared, rubbed her eyes, 
and stared again. The room was lit only by wax 
candles, and the figure in the doorway seemed en- 
veloped by an unearthly radiance. No wonder Miss 
Augusta stared. 

Was this the dress that Christopher had designed? 
And had he designed it with a special purpose ? The 
material was velveteen — of a shade of nasturtium red. 
It was open at the throat and fell in straight folds 
to the slender ankles. The masses of rippling gold 
which fell from brow to waist were held back by a 
black ribbon band. Anything more exquisite and 
picturesque had never stood in that gloomy room, 
or centred on itself such grudging admiration as fell 
from Augusta Agglestone’s lips. 


In Agglestone House 161 

"Is that— Mara?” 

“But yes. Mara — as I have made her!” cried 
Christopher gaily. “ Mara, my golden fee, my prin- 
cess of fairies ! Is it not well-conceived, my good aunt 
Augusta? Can you behold that and say — ‘It is for 
the kitchen not the salon?' Ah no; c’est impossible, 
ga! No common peasant child is she! There is ro- 
mance about her ; mystery ; the sorrowful charm of de- 
stiny that none can resist. Entrez, my child. Sit on 
that small low chair that holds you at right distance 
and I shall sing to you the song I made while I de- 
signed your wonderful dress, which is a success I will 
acclaim, is it not, dear Jeanne?” 

“It is perfectly exquisite, dear Christopher!” 
murmured Miss Jane, gazing as one entranced at the 
beautiful vision. A golden fee indeed. Well might 
Christopher be proud of his work. 

Miss Augusta had no words. Life was becoming too 
bewildering and complicated for her rules and mea- 
sures. Only, she could not but acknowledge that this 
child whoever or whatever she was had certainly the 
prerogatives of birthright, if loveliness and grace and 
gentle manners were any standard. She had always 
proclaimed they were. In puzzled silence she watched 
the absorbed face of the listening child, and caught, 
half unwillingly, the tender cadence of Christopher’s 
strange song. 

“Fay of the mountains, mystical spirit 
Strayed from your own land 
Far from the folk-land, 

All there is with it 
Holds you and keeps you, 

Keeps you as spirit. 


ii 


162 


The Rubbish Heap 


Deep are your eyes 

With the dreams of the dawning, 

And the grace of the swan, 

And the gold of the morning 

Is the gold of your hair 

And the wistful strange face of you. . . • 

What are their spells? 

Dreams and desires of you. 

Your lips they are sweet 
But never for kisses, 

And the madness and sadness 
And wonder of this is 
Yourself. Ah — you only 
Fay of the mountains, 

Spirit of air; the voice of the fountains. 

Yet when I seek you 
Gone, as a dream are you, 

Those who have lost you 
Claim you, and keen for you. 1 
Far o’er the dark hills 
Back to the shadows 

Dark for the gold, and Death for the life of you 
Thus have I named you 
Fay of the mountains ” 

i • . . • 

Adieu! Adieu! 

This queer wild rhapsody, knowing little of lilt or 
rhythm, was set to music as strange and, possibly 
as technically faulty. But the art of the singer, and 
the thrill and passion of his voice, defied any criticism 
save that of emotion. 

Miss Jane sat with clasped hands and raptured face. 


1 Keen — Irish for mourn. 


In Agglestone House 163 

The eyes of Mara were fixed on the singer as if his 
words and his vision were echoing in her soul, sweeping 
her back to the lonely valley and the Sorrowful 
Mountain from whence she had wandered. Miss 
Augusta was too bewildered to make out what the 
song was, or why the composer should throw so 
much feeling into his rendering of it. As a rule the 
amateur musician shuns any display of feeling, and a 
drawing-room ballad sung to a drawing-room audience 
is usually as unemotional as if interpreted by a barrel 
organ or a musical box. 

When the boy flashed round on them, twirling the 
music stool with him, and asked what they thought 
of his composition, his aunts seemed at a loss to 
answer. Miss Augusta because she disapproved of 
anything theatrical; Miss Jane because she found it 
difficult to express her feelings before her sister. 

Mara, alone, suffered from no embarrassment. She 
rose, and went up to the piano, and stood gazing at the 
ivory keys as if she questioned their magic of sound. 

“It was so beautiful,” she sighed. “It spoke 
of all I’ve felt and seen over there, in the long days 
and the starlit nights ; and the bells sounding, and the 
voices chanting the way the tears would start in my 
eyes to hear them. And it’s the great longing is in 
my heart again for all that I’ve left behind. For 
when I hear your music it’s not this grand house I’m 
wanting, or the fine clothes, or the good food, though 
I’m grateful for it all, but just to be there again. With 
the wind blowing free through my hair, and the light 
of dawn looking over the Sorrowful Mountain and 
tellin’ me ” 

She stopped abruptly. She had seen his astonished 
face, and heard the pained entreaty of Miss Jane’s 


164 


The Rubbish Heap 

interruption — “Mara child! don’t say you’re not 
happy here; that you want to return to Ireland?” 

Mara turned her soft eyes to the distressed face of 
her new guardian. 

“I’m not ungrateful, Miss Jane. And if I’m not 
happy it’s only my own fault. But something does be 
callin,’ callin’, all the time, and when he sang that 
tonight, I knew what it was. The voice of the land 
I’ve left, and of my own people that belong to it.” 

The great tears gathered in her wistful eyes, and 
Christopher, starting up from the piano stool, began 
to pace the room in a perturbed fashion. 

“ Malheur eux that I am! Why did I then compose 
that music, or sing that song ? I know well what they 
said to me, but I had not meant to re-awake the so 
triste memories in your heart, my child ! But you must 
forget them. You cannot return to the land you 
have left, for it is that we have need of you here, I 
and the dear Miss Jeanne you have told me you love; 
and your new friends on the island — do you forget 
them? You were happy there, is it not? and you pro- 
mised to go again with me. I want to see you in that 
wonderful room, in your golden frock, and with your 
golden hair all loose, and behind you that old pan- 
elled wall on which hangs the harp with the broken 
strings. Mara! Mara! if you leave us how am I to 
paint the subjects you inspire; the things that you 
bring to me, and that no one else has ever brought?” 

The child’s eyes had never left his face, that mobile 
nervous face with its changing expressions and queer 
faun-like mouth. She could not half comprehend his 
rapid words, but she heard the longing in the voice 
that called her name, that said she brought to him 
what no one else had ever brought. 


In Agglestone House 165 

Was that true? Did he need her, and was it for 
his sake that there had come this change of home and 
life? To be needed . . . why that was strange indeed. 
No one had ever seemed to want her like that. Her 
eyes turned to Miss Jane. She too was looking 
anxious and disturbed. Her small delicate hand was 
suddenly outstretched. 

“Come to me; come here, Mara. Is it true you are 
not happy? You don’t want to stay with us any 
longer?” 

Slowly the child crossed the room, and took the 
outstretched hand. “It is all so grand, and so 
strange in this big house,” she faltered. “I felt it 
most the day when I strayed about that island, and 
saw the high hills, and smelt the sweet brown earth. 
And it came to me how lonesome I was here, though 
ye’re all so kind to me; and in dread I was to come 
back and sit with the servants there below, that 
I have no thought or feelin’ with. And then, when the 
wail of the wind and the call of the mountain came 
sounding through his music, all the heart in me seemed 
to die with the strange longing for the lone road, 
and the night-time on the hills, and no high cruel 
walls to be holdin’ me back from the voices that call, 
an’ call ” 

They were all looking at her now. And all were 
silent. A bitter pang of disappointment rent Miss 
Jane’s gentle heart. She had meant to do a big 
thing, a generous thing, and she had only prisoned a 
soul as her own had been prisoned : had brought fresh 
sorrow on this strange and sorrowful child. 

“Ah, Mara,” she said gently, “I am to blame — I 
only. I should not have interfered. They say it’s 
only the Irish can understand the Irish. I wanted to 


1 66 


The Rubbish Heap 

give you a home and an education, but, perhaps, 
I set about it the wrong way. Certainly it was wrong 
to send you down to the servant’s hall one half your 
time and treat you as an equal the other. For, in 
the studio, there was no difference between you and 
Christopher. ” 

“No,” she said, “nor on the island.” 

“How you do harp on that island. Was it so 
different there?” 

“Ask — him, ” said the child, looking at Christopher. 

He paused in his limping walk, and stood before 
them. The frail little spinster with her kind and 
agitated face; the beautiful child with her wistful eyes 
and untutored soul. 

“Different, but yes,” he said. “Another world, 
another life, and to Mara, as to me, a call, a summons, 
that lifted us from out the commonplace every-day 
world. Ah, but it is so hard to express, to explain! 
I fear that never could I make you understand, because 
to you, and to Augustine the so-excellent and so- 
good, there is the closed door between all that means 
Art and its call, and just the prose of every-day life as 
you have lived and still live it. ” 

“I confess I do not understand a single word of all 
you have been saying!” exclaimed Miss Augusta 
sharply. “But it serves you right, Jane, for inter- 
fering in what does not concern you. I gave in to 
Christopher’s extraordinary freak about painting, 
because it was better he should employ his time in 
that way than idle about the house doing nothing. 
And I made no objection to using all and sundry as 
models, because that too seemed necessary to this 
“art,” as he calls it. But I never approved of your 
extraordinary idea of bringing this child into our 


In Agglestone House 167 

establishment, and making yourself responsible for 
her education, or well-being. The Irish are always 
incomprehensible, and always ungrateful. You see 
what has come of it all! You take Mara out of her 
actual surroundings, and she only desires to get 
back to them! I expect she was far happier in that 
old curio shop, and grubbing about what Christopher 
has painted as a rubbish heap ! If you take my advice 
you’ll not go dressing her up like a young duchess, 
but just send her back to where she came from. If 
Christopher needs her as a model — well, he can engage 
her to come to and fro as she did at first. And, 
now, having spoken out my mind, and told you what 
I think of this absurd business, I’ll wish you all good- 
night. I am very much upset, and I feel that I am 
going to have one of my headaches. ” 

Headaches were a special ailment of Miss Augusta’s 
when anything went wrong with the household, or 
with her own wishes and opinions. In this instance 
a great deal had gone wrong, and her wishes had been 
entirely disregarded. Salvolatile and bromide were 
essential as restoratives of her composure, and with a 
dignified bow to all assembled she rustled out of the 
room. 


SCENE XII 


The White Room 

A bedroom, small and very neat, and with plain 
white walls, and white furniture, and a low brass 
bedstead draped in white dimity to match the window 
hangings. It is a room prepared with all a childless 
woman’s care and tenderness for what “ might have 
been.” A room where her fancy and imagination 
have played at scenes that can never live except in 
such imaginings. 

The Action in the Scene 

Miss Jane and Mara came upstairs almost directly 
after Miss Augusta had left the drawing-room. 

It was the gentle spinster’s custom to go every night 
to the child’s room and help her undress, and brush 
out with careful hands the golden masses of her 
wonderful hair. Mara submitted to such innovations 
as she had submitted to all the changes in her new life. 
But she was far from recognizing how deep an interest 
her new protectress took in such matters. For, 
indeed, the child’s strange beauty, as well as that 
mystical charm, so much a part of herself, had com- 
pletely enslaved Miss Jane. And, again, that innate 
refinement, which responded to an altered mode of 
1 68 


The White Room 


169 


life, made these new duties a new pleasure. Not only 
had her interest awakened, but her affection, the 
passionate qualities of her sex-starved nature. 

Tonight, as she unfastened the pretty frock, and 
its dainty under-slip, and threw a white dressing- jacket 
over the bare shoulders, as she unloosed the hair- 
ribbon, and prepared for her nightly task of brushing 
and combing, and plaiting its soft strands, she recog- 
nized, with a sudden pang, how much such things had 
come to mean for her. 

Mara sat in the accustomed chair before the toilet- 
table, and Miss Jane could see her face in the glass, 
and wonder, as she always wondered, at that serene 
indifference to its own beauty. The long even strokes 
of the brush went on and on, but the silence remained 
unbroken. Miss Jane was half afraid to put the 
question trembling on her lips, half afraid to hear 
again that plaintive cry — “Somethin’ does be callin’, 
callin’, all the time. ” 

What was it that so called; that was stronger than 
any instinct of material comfort, or well-being? What 
was it that set the lonely mountains and the dreary 
cabins of her own land as sweeter possessions than 
the home so gladly given her here? Miss Jane 
could not imagine. But it grieved her to think that 
all her trouble and her interest were powerless to win 
affection ; and that for all she had done and hoped no 
better response had she won than that plaintive cry, 
“I’m not happy.” 

A heavy sigh escaped her, as she parted the soft 
hair into strands, and began to plait them for the 
night. The child, hearing the sigh, glanced up. 
Their eyes met in the mirror, and held each other in 
a long thoughtful gaze. 


170 


The Rubbish Heap 

“So you’re not happy with me, Mara?” said Miss 
Jane sadly. ‘What is the reason? I have done 
everything I can think of to make you feel at home. 
I furnished this little room as I thought I would have 
furnished it for a little girl of my own, had I ever 
possessed one. I put all the books I thought suitable 
on those shelves. I arranged your clothes in the 
drawers there so that you might learn tidiness, and 
take the pride in your garments that every woman 
ought to take. I even conformed to my nephew’s 
wishes respecting your hours of study, although they 
do not always suit myself. I cannot recall anything I 
have omitted that might make you content, or fill 
your life with interest, and yet there’s never a smile 
on your lips, and you show me no affection. That 
is hardest of all, Mara. For the years have been very 
empty for me. It was only when Christopher came 
that things grew better, and the dull long days became 
alive with new interests. It was he who told me I 
was selfish, and self-centred, and sought to widen my 
outlook on life, and led me to take concern for others. 
That was how I thought of you, my dear. No home, 
no ties, and living that strange life with those queer 
Irish people. I thought if I gave you a home, edu- 
cated and trained you, that it would be a benefit to 
both of us. You have been here a month, and I had 
hoped you were quite content, and tonight . . . you 
said that. ” 

“I’m not meanin’ to be ungrateful,” said the child. 
“ Indeed, Miss Jane, I know well all you’ve been doin’ 
and thinkin’ for me, and often I’ve wondered why it 
is. There’s been talk enough below stairs about it 
all.” 

“Below stairs!” Her hand paused suddenly in its 


The White Room 


171 

labours. “Is it that , Mara, that has upset you? 
Passing half your time with us and half in the servants’ 
hall, as my sister insists? I told her it would not do, 
that it was unfair. Because there’s something about 
you — I mean I could not from the first associate you 
with the peasant class — if that is the class from which 
Mrs. Quirke has sprung? I wish you knew , Mara!” 

“Knew?” questioned the child. “Knew where I 
come from, and who it is I am — that’s what you’re 
meaning?” 

“Yes, that’s what I mean.’ 

“But if I knew, how could that be makin’ any 
difference?” 

“ It would satisfy us all as to your right to be treated 
like ourselves. That, of course, is what my sister 
means. Did the matter rest with me, I should only 
obey my own instincts. ” 

She commenced on the second plait, and as she wove 
the strands from three to one, she still watched the 
little serious face in the mirror. “You would not like 
to go back to the curiosity shop, to that ugly dirty 
house, Mara?” 

“The room where I’d be sitting was not ugly, the 
queer things it had, and the wide window that looked 
to the sea. ” 

“You mean the lumber room? Yes, the view was 
beautiful, but the dust and dirt, Mara; and — that 
Rubbish Heap!” 

She glanced round the neat white bedroom she had 
so lovingly prepared, as if drawing attention to the 
contrast. “ I tell you what, ” she went on eagerly, “ I 
will arrange that you have your meals either here, or 
in the studio. How will that do?” 

“ Indeed it’s no matter to me, Miss Jane, where I do 


172 


The Rubbish Heap 

be eatin’ them. I would not have you trouble your- 
self. Only when Mr. Christopher dresses me so fine, 
as tonight, and I’m sent down to the servants’ hall to 
be made a mock of, and I think of the high wall beyond 
that’s holdin’ me in, then it’s the sorrowful heart I 
have for the freedom of the mountains, and the wide 
green valleys where I’d roam, and none to say me nay.” 

“But there’s no home for you in the mountains, 
child; and where would you get food, and clothes, and 
books? Books, Mara, that you love better than 
anything. ” 

“Except the music he makes, and the queer wild 
talk he has. ” 

“Who? Mr. Christopher? I believe you like him 
better than me, Mara?” 

“If there’s quality in liking a person, maybe I do, 
Miss Jane. But I’m grateful for all your kindness, 
and the way you do be teachin’ me things same as if I 
was a lady like yourself. Only I’m not, Miss Jane, 
and they do be throwin’ it in me face all the time, as if 
it was my fault that I’d been brought here ; and, indeed, 
I wasn’t asked would I wish to come. It was just 
yourself and Mr. Christopher as had your will about 
that. ” 

“We did it for the best, and because we felt that a 
day would come when you’d be thankful for it, Mara. ” 

“ Maybe I shall, miss, but the day looks far off to me 
now. ” 

Miss Jane sighed once more as she completed the 
second plait of hair. If she could not make the child 
happy it seemed cruel to keep her. Yet, on the other 
hand, what sort of life would it be that Katty Quirke 
could give to one whose natural refinement and 
beauty needed a better setting than the curio shop? 


The White Room 


i73 


She turned away, and taking up the picturesque 
frock of Christopher’s workmanship shook and folded 
it, and put it in the appointed wardrobe drawer. 
“Don’t you even care for pretty clothes, Mara?” she 
asked. 

The child had watched the busy fingers with a 
musing indifferent gaze. 

“I liked — that — ” she said. “It was lovely, the 
colour of it and the feel of it. But there was only the 
mock of me for wearin’ it, and it took all the pleasure 
away. Cherry — she it was that called me ‘beggar 
brat,’ and wondered how the young forrin’ gentle- 
man could ever be troublin’ his head to paint me. 
And the frock, she said, was only for when I was being 
put into one o’ them pictures. ” 

“Jealousy!” murmured Miss Jane, enlightened 
once for all on differences of station as represented by 
“below,” and “above” stairs. “And so that spoilt 
your evening, and sent back the sorrowful memories? 
It was my fault, for I ought to have had courage to 
carry out my plan consistently. It shall not happen 
again, Mara. I ought to be strong enough to hold my 
own. But then I dread — quarrelling. Yet now I 
have Christopher to back me up I really feel equal 
to — to the effort. I see my mistake. You cannot 
hold a place between the parlour and the kitchen. 
It must be one or other. And I think, Mara, I am 
not wrong in saying it shall not be the — kitchen.” 

Involuntarily she caught the child’s hands, raised 
for a moment to unfasten a button in her little petti- 
coat. “Why — how small, and how white they are, 
and what perfect nails ! Mara, child, you are a mys- 
tery indeed ! I wish there was any way of finding out 
its meaning?” 


174 


The Rubbish Heap 

She unfastened the remaining buttons and tapes, 
and then bade the child good-night. At this stage of 
the nightly toilet she always departed. For Mara had 
a crucifix and a rosary, and to those she said her 
simple prayers. Miss Jane’s correct Protestantism 
fled affrighted from so incomprehensible a proceeding. 

“Mamma and Papa would never have let me have 
a Roman Catholic in the house, ” she thought. “And 
I know Augusta does not like it, but, she looks like 
a little saint herself, when she kneels by that white 
bed, and asks the Mother of Christ to bless her own 
white soul! . . . The Mother of Christ? ... It 
is a beautiful thought. It brings Him, and His birth 
and His mission in such close touch with humanity. 
Christopher says we have destroyed all that in our 
Church, with our hard Anglican creed, and our legacy 
from fierce bigots. ... I wonder if he is right? 
Oh dear ! how strange and complicated life has become 
for me of late!” 

She did not know that that fact proved she had be- 
gun to live. That an opening had suddenly appeared 
in the narrow walls of her previous environment. 
The opening revealed little as yet, but a certain 
restlessness and dissatisfaction had crept in. They 
were not pleasant intruders and they evinced a dis- 
position to still further widen their mode of ingress. 
They hinted at lack of courage, at self-blindness, at 
wasted opportunities, a life as useless as it was self- 
centred. 

The Jane Agglestone, who had been in leading 
strings all her life, suddenly confronted a new Jane 
Agglestone, who demanded at least the rights of her 
individuality as a woman and a human entity. Chris- 
topher and Mara between them had altered much that 


The White Room 


i7 5 


she had supposed unalterable. They had brought 
about a subtle indescribable change in her mode of 
life and her mode of looking at life. Order, and rule, 
and tradition, all the stiff and stately things with which 
her sister loved to surround their existence, seemed 
now of far less account than an hour of Christopher’s 
queer talk of art; than the pleasure of correcting 
Mara’s reading or spelling, or watching her small 
fingers pick out the notes on the piano. 

When she closed the door on that kneeling figure and 
returned to the drawing-room she could have found 
it in her own heart to pray for the continuance of 
these things. The hours in the studio, the hours of 
teaching and training, that whole sudden uplifting 
of her life and feelings from out of the groove of forty 
placid years. 

The Scene Changes to the Drawing-room Again 

Christopher was still seated at the piano, playing 
soft disjointed fragments of melody, when Miss 
Jane returned. 

He looked up as she closed the door. “Has she then 
gone to bed, la p'tite? Was she not as a dream 
embodied in that tawny velvet frock? I make a 
portrait of that, and shall present it to you, chere 
Jeanne, as memory of your goodness to us both.” 

Miss Jane seated herself in her accustomed seat 
by the fireplace and took up the fancy work which she 
had left there. “Will you do that for me, Christopher? 
I should love it above all things. It would be some- 
thing to remember her by — in years to come. ” 

He turned round on the stool. “You say that as if 
she herself would no longer be here to be remem- 
bered?” 


176 


The Rubbish Heap 

“ I have a feeling that she will not. You heard what 
she said tonight. She is not happy. . . . She wants 
to return to her own land, though why she should want 
it, I cannot imagine. I am sure I have done everything 
I could think of for her comfort, and to make her 
content. What has come over her, Christopher?” 

“I know not; unless it is that the island reminds 
her of that other island, her home. She seemed 
enchanted with it, and the queer old artist, and the 
house where he lives. Ah! my dear Jeanne, if you 
could but see that enchanted place ! It is delightful, 
and he, the cher maitre eccentrique , he too is delightful. 
And he will teach me to paint backgrounds ! Figure 
to yourself that what made for him a reputation 
that all must envy, he will teach to me ! And already 
he praises. I am no dolt or dunderhead, see you ! I 
have it in me to work, and to work well at what I love. 
He comes here tomorrow, does Marmaduke Dax, to 
see my atelier , and to see also that study of Mara — 
as the lost/<?e of the mountains. There would be yet 
time to send it for exhibition, if he but approves? 

. . . Perhaps though he may say it is all wrong. 
Too misty, too uncertain ... 

“I think it is perfectly exquisite!” exclaimed Miss 
Jane. “How you have caught that look in her eyes, 
and put it on your canvas is marvellous !” 

“ Most dear critic! I would there were some dozen 
of yourself to sit in judgment at the decision of accept- 
ance. Then truly I need not fear. But when they 
regard not the subject nor the meaning , but the 
technique — which is faulty — what can you expect. 
Rejection — all the time.” 

“Did you say this new friend of yours is coming 
tomorrow?” 


The White Room 


1 77 


“But yes. He is so good as to promise that. He 
has a little skiff, a bateau electrique , that flies so swiftly 
it makes short work of the voyage. I am so proud to 
show him my studio. And you will have the goodness 
to give him some luncheon, will you not, dearjeanne? ” 
“I must tell Augusta. You know I have no- 
thing to do with the housekeeping arrangements, 
Christopher. ” 

“ N'importe! One or other, so long as there is some 
food to offer. I forget though, he is so strange, this 
Monsieur Dax. He eats no meat, only the legumes , 
the salade, the fruits of season. And to drink — only 
water. So you see he will not deranger the good 
Augustine, or the cook, who makes always the joint 
si sanglant , and the fish so — stodgy. I would like 
much to show her how one cooks en casserole. The 
art to make the pommes frittes , that are crisp as a 
crodton, and light as thistledown. ” 

“You seem able to do everything, dear Chris. How 
on earth did you learn?” 

“In France it is not difficult to learn the art de 
cuisine . Our little flat had the charming conveniences, 
and our good bonne a tout faire , she would let me watch 
her beat the omelette, and fry the artichoke, and 
prepare the poulet en casserole , so that at last I learn it 
all for myself. I confess, dear Jeanne, I like not your 
English cooking, as I find it here. It is so heavy; so 
much of the sameness. But I am discreet. I do not 
say so to the good Augustine. By the way what had 
she tonight, that one? Something has disturbed her 
I could well see, and she left the room in a mood 
that was not amiable. Was it my song — think you? ” 
“No, I think it was Mara. You know she was 
much averse to having the child here, and she is vexed 


12 


i 7 8 


The Rubbish Heap 

that she does not appreciate the privilege. I too, 
my dear Christopher, am a little grieved about it. 
You heard what she said tonight, and I was hoping 
she was perfectly happy.” 

“Mara is a spirit, a fee, as I have told you. She 
has lost herself; she has wandered afar. She is as 
Melisande, she will not ever be happy. ” 

“I know nothing of Melisande, Christopher. I 
really mean what I said. Do you think I ought to 
keep her? That we should send her back to her own 
country? She might be happier in that convent of 
which she talks? ” 

“Now see you, my dear Jeanne, I have my own 
views and opinions on this matter. You call it 
‘fantasie,’ but Mara is a fantasy. She is no ordinary 
child. To my good fortune I capture her, but had 
it not been that she liked me, of myself, never would 
she have come here. That, being a fait accompli , we 
have to consider if we can keep her. I much fear we 
cannot. On the part of the other, I do not believe 
the good sea-captain and his wife would have more 
chance. She is restless; she is dissatisfied. She is 
half of another world, and half of this. What is her 
history we do not know. What will be her fate who 
can say ? All the same I take it not of good part that 
the excellent Augustine should consign her to the 
kitchen quarters. I did not design her dress and 
make of her so beautiful a vision for the hall of servi- 
tude to have her company!” 

“I know. I felt it was a mistake, and the child 
told me that Cherry was rude to her, and called her a 
‘ beggar’s brat. ’ She has put in some very unhappy 
evenings, and I never knew it until tonight.” 

“ Mais , we must alter that,” said Christopher 


The White Room 


179 


defiantly. 4 ‘It is not kind of Augustine. I am well 
assured it was not your wish, dear Jeanne. As 
for Cherry — she has become insupportable, since I 
made of her a model. Figure to yourself, dear aunt, 
that she rebuked me for that I made her not resemble 
Mara! And when I laughed, she was of the most 
enraged. It would seem that her idea of a painter is 
one who makes all his subjects one type of beauty !” 

“I think perhaps she is jealous,” said Miss Jane. 
“She knows Mara only as the child from the curio 
shop, and she cannot understand her having a separate 
room, and pretty frocks, or that I am teaching her 
music. ” 

Christopher shrugged his shoulders, and turned 
again to the piano. “Where there are women there 
will always be disagreements,” he observed causti- 
cally. “Myself, I think that the cher maitre is wise. 
He lives on an island where none of the sex ever shows 
herself, and the world outside is to him — nothing; 
rien de tout ! 1 


SCENE XIII 


Christopher' s Studio 


The Action in the Scene 

Christopher, in a mood between doubt and 
despair, had placed the picture of The Wandering 
Fee in the best light, and now moved between it and 
the window, afraid to add another stroke, conscious 
that the thing was good } and yet tremulous at the 
prospect of coming criticism. 

The spring sunshine rained its living gold on the 
world without. From the garden below the scents of 
lilac, and the faint perfume of the almond blossoms 
stole in with their message of the season. In a tall 
green glass on his table some splendid double daffodils 
stood up against their green spear-like sheaths. He 
looked at them with a smile of approbation. He 
had at last taught Miss Jane that a few flowers loosely 
arranged were worth dozens of packed bowls and stiff 
posies, such as adorned the drawing-room. 

“I wonder what he will think of it, this atelier of 
sorts?” reflected the boy. “It bears, of course, no 
comparison to that splendid wide verandah of his, with 
nature’s handiwork on all sides. Still, it has an 
atmosphere, a repose that induces work. I have done 
180 


Christopher’s Studio 181 

much here, though whether it is worth the doing who 
will say. Ah entrez , come in — whoever you are!” 

The door opened slowly and the opening framed the 
cherry-cheeked visage of the scullery-maid. Chris- 
topher’s brows drew themselves into a quick frown. 

“But you, Cherry-ripe? What then is it? Ah! 
bring not those abominations here! Have I not 
said that if it is the studio is not swept, what you say, 
brosser , balayer, before the breakfast hour, I will have 
it not at all!” 

“Please, sir — Mister Christopher — they kep’ me 
downstairs so as I couldn’t get up to finish. ’Tis 
only the dust, sir. I won’t disturb you. ” 

“ Anything in the room disturbs me when I am as to- 
day, wire-strung, excite. See you there — ” He 
w r aved a paint brush in the direction of the easel — 
‘ ‘ That awaits the opinion of a master ! What do I care 
for dust, broom, or duster. Take yourself off, Cherry, 
or I fear I forget my manners and put you out, as 
one says, by a tour deforce /” 

“Very well, sir; but don’t blame me, sir, if Miss 
Jane finds fault with the room.” 

“It is more of probability that I find fault with 
your too arduous attentions to the room!” exclaimed 
Christopher. “If it is not one excuse, it is another. 
And see you, Cherry-ripe, I do not need you any longer. 
Your face — it will not compose to suit my fancy, and I 
have no patience to wait for harvest-time for that 
study. It was but a caprice, a passing idee. You 
shall have it for yourself, if you so please, a cadeau de 
noces, in a frame of gold to hang on your cottage walls, 
eh?” 

The girl’s eyes turned sulkily to the easel. 

“It’s as good as her’n, ” she muttered, pleating her 


1 82 The Rubbish Heap 

apron into crumpled folds — the colour ebbing and 
flowing in her cheeks. Christopher watched her 
curiously. What then had come to this girl since he 
had amused himself by tying his handkerchief round 
her head, and painting her as a harvest gleaner in 
advance of harvest? He recalled his aunt’s words 
the previous night. Jealousy. Cherry Menlove was 
jealous of the lovely Irish waif, who had drifted 
thither on the waves of chance; had mocked at her, 
insulted her, and now dared to assert that her own 
face on the easel was worthy of comparison with his 
fantasie of Mara. Was it then impossible for woman, 
whatever her position in life, to get away from that 
debasing influence of sex? Its covetousness, its 
jealousy, its passion for conquest and enslavement. 
He had heard quite enough of these proclivities from 
school days in Britanny up to studio confessions in 
Paris. And he had read more than enough of woman 
and her frailty and her caprices in the works of Balzac, 
and Zola, and Paul de Kock, and Maupassant. It 
might not have entered an English youth’s head that 
this cherry-cheeked bashful country-girl had fallen a 
victim to his fascinations, but to Christopher, steeped 
in second-hand confidences and fully qualified to pass 
an examination in the first standard of carnality, the 
idea was coincident with the occasion. It may have 
been the strain of clean English blood in his veins that 
prompted its instant rejection, that warned him 
against any Paul de Kock intrigue under the roof of 
those rigidly virtuous spinsters. Also, unknown to 
himself as yet, there may have sprung up within his 
heart an ideal purer and worthier than sensual grati- 
fication. Something inspired by his art, and like 
Art tranquil, chaste, and uplifting. In any case he 


Christopher’s Studio 183 

gave no encouragement to the foolish girl, wrestling 
with the oppressiveness of emotion, and unskilled in 
any art of concealment. 

“As good as — this?” he said at last, looking from 
Mara’s wistful portrayal to the crude hasty sketch 
standing with some other canvases against the wall. 
“Well, that of course depends on the view of the 
one who regards it. But hasten off, little busybody, 
and see you that in future the studio is what you call 
swept up before that I arrive to work; autrement I 
will not have it done at all! Now go. Allez vous en!’* 

He pointed to the door which, as if to emphasize his 
command, suddenly opened on the portly figure of 
Tomlinson. His disapproving glance swept Cherry, 
and her broom and duster into the passage without 
further warning. Then he addressed Christopher. 

“You will excuse my remarking, sir, that that young 
female is a deal too fond of this attelar of yours, sir. I 
am afraid that your condescension in making a model 
of her has a bit turned her head; toopay ler tayte , as I 
hear you say once, sir. ” 

Christopher laughed. “ Tespere que non , my excel- 
lent Tomlinson. But what is it ? You bring news ” 

“Oh, beg pardon, sir. I was to say that there was a 
gentleman below to see you. Miss Jane met him in 
the hall, sir, and took him into the drawing-room. He 
gave me no card, sir. ” 

“Possibly — he has none. He has far removed him- 
self from the convenances , the etiquette of this so well- 
disciplined household. Ask the gentleman to ascend, 
Tomlinson. Yet wait, one moment! See you then 
that picture? Now tell me, of your so honest frank- 
ness, what does it say to you ? I mean — you enter this 
room, your eye falls on the table there with its vivid 


184 


The Rubbish Heap 

touch of gold and green — it travels onwards — it is 
arrested — quoi done ? — the effect? ... Is it one of 
surprise, pleasure, or disappointment?” 

The staid British butler glanced as directed from 
the gleaming gold of the flowers to the tender misty- 
background of the picture on its easel. Resting 
there the gaze concentrated on the middle distance. 
From out of it rose the pale loveliness of a face; the 
sorrowful yearning of two uplifted eyes. He was no 
connoisseur of art, he knew little of its inner meanings 
as interpreted by the artist, but something in that face 
seemed to catch his breath, to hold him spellbound. 
He opened his lips as if to speak, but no words came. 

Christopher watching his expression with the 
eager anxiety of the creator suddenly caught his 
hand. 

“No — say nothing! Hold it back, for I see your 
heart is full. We will not hurt the perfect moment by 
banal speech. Ah Tomlinson! good, stolid British 
as you are, you could feel that! You could see 
what anguish of soul lies behind those searching 
eyes! . . . You have done for me what no critic could 
do. I shall never forget, Tomlinson, never! You are 
my friend for life!” 

He seized the astonished butler’s hand and shook it 
violently. There were tears in his eyes; his mouth 
was tremulous. 

“Go then, my good friend, and tell him who waits — 
the master of my destiny he is — to ascend at once; and 
the good Miss Jeanne also, if she so pleases, but not 
the aunt Augustine, Tomlinson, this is no hour for 
her.” 

“Yes, sir; certainly sir. I was only going to say, 


Christopher’s Studio 185 

“No! No! I refuse to hear. Why spoil a moment 
so perfect in itself ?” 

He pushed the stately figure gently to the door, and 
watched the broad back with smiling eyes. 

At the head of the stairs Tomlinson turned. 

“I thought, sir, if the face had a more natural — 
colour? Not quite so — charoscuro, if I may say, sir. ” 

The door closed. 

It opened before the embryo artist had quite made 
up his mind to laugh at or resent the criticism. Miss 
Jane came in, followed by Mara and Marmaduke Dax. 

Christopher’s greeting was somewhat theatrical. 
“Cher maitre, I am indeed honoured! This is the 
humble workshop of which I told you, and that ” 

The “ cher maitre ” gave one brief look round the 
room and then went straight to the picture. Chris- 
topher had doiie little more to it since the first embodi- 
ment of his vision. He had felt uncertain, and a 
little afraid. The study had sprung so spontaneously 
from his brush, had quivered and quickened into life 
with so much ease that he had left it as “inspiration” 
and feared to put in technical detail. 

The artist stood a few paces away from the canvas 
and scrutinized it with jealous eyes. Eyes jealous of 
Art for art’s sake, and impatient of anything puerile, 
careless, unconvincing. 

“It’s good,” he said suddenly. “I have not seen 
anything so good for many a year. You’ve caught 
your model’s innermost soul! . . . You were right. 
It is far better than the Rubbish Heap. But I doubt 
if it would sell so well. ” 

‘ ‘ Sell ! ’ ’ exclaimed Christopher. * * Master ! Do not 
desecrate Art by an immediate calculation of its 


1 86 The Rubbish Heap 

money value ! All I ask of you is if it is good? Has it 
then caught what was in my brain ? Have I succeeded 
ever so little, in putting what I feel — there?” 

“How can I tell what you feel, or felt. I can only 
say this is good. As a picture it has a certain value. 
As a subject it has a certain force. Your brush has 
conveyed what your brain originated. But as regards 
technique — there are faults as before. For instance 
the curve of that cheek, the shadow on the hair. But 
only the professional eye would notice these as defects. 
The wonder of the thing is that fleece of living gold; 
the sombre questioning of the eyes; the vagueness of 
the setting which is yet not vague at all when one 
looks into it. . . . Yes, as I said before, it is good. 
I am glad to have seen it. If you wish I will give you 
the address of a dealer whom it would suit exactly. 
He would pay you a fair price too, though perhaps 
only as the sacrifice of liberty. You would have to 
paint for him; give him all you did on certain terms. 
Art is only a commodity in the world’s market, you 
know, and modern artists have to get known just as 
dramatists, and writers, and musicians have to get 
known. Intellectual distinction is all very well, but 
man cannot live by brains alone. He wants bread 
and cheese, and a roof over his head, and possibly a 
companion to cheer his loneliness. So dreams must 
be put aside. The big ideas, and the big canvas, 
and the Great Work. The trouble is that once put 
aside, we never seem able to get back to them again. ” 

But Christopher was only hearing those magic words 
— “ It is good. ” Spoken by an authority on the sub- 
ject of Art they carried him off his feet for the mo- 
ment. They threw wide the gates of success, and made 
of labour only a joyous adventure. If this picture 


Christopher s Studio 


187 


sold, if the world at large could see it, or hear of it, then 
his name would be on men’s lips, and he could plunge 
into the arena of Art without hindrance. He felt his 
cheeks grow warm, and his heart-beats quicken. 
His excitable Gallic temperament rushed off at a tan- 
gent, and he seized the hands of his critic, and poured 
out a flood of excited hopes. 

A gesture stayed him. “Stop, stop! my young 
enthusiast! I have not finished. I spoke of faults of 
technique. In that picture as in the previous one, 
there is the same fault. Want of depth in the back- 
ground. The reason is that you dash into the middle 
of your subject before giving it a distinct position 
on your canvas. Still, in this one, I should be loth 
to tamper with that misty effect. I expect you will 
hear a lot of criticism, and receive a lot of advice. The 
art critic is generally a man who knows everything 
about painting except how to paint. He holds all the 
glory of victory because he has never known defeat. 
The question is — will you work on steadily for the 
next year, or will you send out these two paintings 
on their merit and wait the result ? ” 

“I . . . I am more than content to take your advice 
cher maitre , ” murmured Christopher. 

“ I would rather not advise. You have to find your 
own place, your own level. There is no doubt you can 
paint. If you would like expert opinion on the sub- 
ject of what your work is worth I believe I can get it 
for you. I used to know all the dealers, once upon a 
time.” 

“Do you — is it that you think I might have the 
chance to get it to one of the exhibitions?” 

“You’re too late for the Academy. But Man- 
chester and Liverpool are no bad markets. Still, 


1 88 The Rubbish Heap 

you might make that into something so very much 
better that I should almost counsel you to wait.” 

“To wait! Ah, monsieur, that is so hard!” 

“At twenty — yes. At forty it’s easy enough. Well, 
please yourself. Leave it as it is, and put that and 
The Rubbish Heap together, and I’ll get a dealer down 
to look at them. ” 

“ How can I thank you ! It is life you give me — for 
— I had scarcely dared to hope this would satisfy 
you. ” 

“It doesn’t. But it pleases me, and it holds a 
promise of far better things. Mind you, I think you 
owe as much to that wonderful child as to your own 
skill. How in the world did you ever get her to main- 
tain that pose and expression for the time you must 
have taken to paint them in?” 

“She adapted it of herself,” said Christopher. “I 
made the drapery, I directed the attitude. For the 
rest — she was just as you see that until ” 

“Until what?” 

“I was going to say until she fainted, monsieur. I 
forgot — she made no complaint — and then ” 

He glanced at Mara. She was sitting on a low stool 
that she specially favoured, and deep in the illustra- 
tions of Grimm’s Fairy Tales . 

“The usual thing?” said Marmaduke Dax. “It’s 
hard work being a model, and she looks as fragile as a 
reed. You seem to have used her services very freely, 
my young friend. I see her face, in other studies.” 

“She inspires me; she brings to me the subject. I 
find it almost difficult to resist the transcription to the 
canvas!” 

Miss Jane now advanced timidly from the position 
of audience. 


Christopher’s Studio 189 

“ I am so glad you approve of Christopher’s work, ” 
she said. “He is so very earnest about it. The 
hours and hours he spends here! I am afraid some- 
times it is not good for his health. But it is no use to 
speak when he has one of those ‘moods,’ as he calls 
them. ” 

“I am glad to hear that, do you know,” said the 
artist. “It’s the only way to succeed. Hard work, 
patience, perseverance. No man ever jumped into 
Fame, nor ever will. She is a vampire who feeds on 
the blood of her victims. Yet they yield it willingly 
for one hour of what she gives them. ” 

Miss Jane looked alarmed. Art was a new lan- 
guage translated by such exponents as Christopher 
and Marmaduke Dax. 

“Christopher has told me about your wonderful 
house and — your own paintings,” she said, by way of 
changing the subject. “ I cannot understand how you 
can cut yourself off from the world as you have 
done. ” 

“The world has not appeared inconsolable,” he 
said bitterly. “It is with Art as with humanity, my 
dear lady. For all it means to the individual there 
are so many other meanings to the multitude. Let no 
man think he is indispensable, and that his place can 
never be filled. It can, and it is, as soon as he drops 
out of men’s memories. But we all estimate our own 
values as — inestimable. ” 

“That sounds rather of the cynic, cher monsieur , ” 
interposed Christopher. “And you have proved too 
kind and too helpful for one to believe you are of 
those who deride what is the best of humanity, and 
of Art.” 

“No, boy, I do not deride either Art or humanity. 


190 


The Rubbish Heap 

I have suffered too much for sake of both. It may 
be that you too will suffer before you gain what 
you desire. Never is the crown without the hidden 
thorn.” 

But Christopher was gazing at the picture on the 
easel. He saw in it a thousandfold more of Hope 
and Triumph and Fame than it had promised in its 
first hour of achievement. And seeing all that what 
did he care for warning or advice?! 


SCENE XIV 


Katty Quirke's Kitchen 

It is a Sunday morning and Katty is sitting over the 
remains of a late breakfast. The place is rather un- 
tidy, and she herself having neglected the chapel ser- 
vice, as usual, is in harmony with the general effect. 
As she pours out a third cup of black strong tea from 
the earthenware teapot the side door on the yard 
opens and Mara enters. 

The Action in the Scene 

Every Sunday Mara came to see Katty Quirke, and 
spent part of the day with her. That had been 
arranged by Miss Jane when she took the child into 
her charge, and Mara usually came in the mornings 
before or after mass. 

On this special Sunday morning she came through 
the back door and greeted her former protectress with 
unusual solemnity. 

“What do they mean by what they’re saying on 
the Quay side, Katty?” she asked. “Have you 
heard?” 

“ I have not. I kept late to me bed wid a bit av a 
toothache as teazed me the night long. What was the 
news, child, they were after tellin’ ye? ” 


192 


The Rubbish Heap 

“It was about Daddy’s ship,” said Mara. “That 
it’s long overdue. No one at the port, or the Custom 
House, has any word of it. ” 

“Well, I was thinkin’ that meself. But a week or 
two’s little matter wid a sea-fayrin’ man. And 
Michael — he had a schame in his head that would be 
takin’ him into another sort av tradin’ place intirely. 
I’m thinkin’ it’s to Ameriky he’s gone. He was 
always talkin’ av that country as if there wasn’t 
its match for money-makin’ in the wide wurrld. ” 

“America!” exclaimed the child. “But, Katty, 
would he be goin’ all that way over the wild ocean 
in the little small ship as he told me was only a 
coastin’ vessel?” 

“Would he — if he tuk the iday into his head? It’s 
little ye know Michael Quirke to be askin’ that, Mara. 
Av coorse he would, an’ to Chinay too, av the thought 
took him.” 

“Then you’re not anxious that he’s been so long 
away?” 

“I am not. If ’twas six months — half a year that 
is — well, I might be. But there’s a long way between 
weeks an’ months. Who was it ye heard tellin’ sich a 
tale?” 

“I don’t know their names. But one of them he 
called to me an’ asked had you heard anything yet? 
And when I said ‘no’ he looked uneasy. ” 

“It’s yerself’s gettin’ the grand way av talkin,’ 
Mara. I suppose it’s bein’ wid the ladies an’ gentle- 
man. I’m thinkin’ himself won’t be too plazed whin 
he sees the changes in ye. Yer dress, an’ yer man- 
ners, an’ the way av spakin’. Av they do be eddy- 
catin’ ye much more it’s forgettin’ ye’re Irish at all 
that ye’ll be; an’ you mincin’ yer wurrds, an’ placin’ 


193 


Katty Quirke’s Kitchen 

yer sintences for all the wurrld like thim ould spinster 
ladies at the great house.” 

“Miss Jane is anxious I should speak correctly, 
although she says she loves the Irish accent.” 

“ Sure, it’s the fine langwidge we’ve got, glory be ! an’ 
no reason to be ashamed av it. But I suppose ye’ll 
be so set up wid the new ways an’ the new folk that 
ye’ll scorn the land av yer birth an’ misfortunes, tho’ 
the tail’s part av the cat, an’ no gettin’ away from 
that, try as ye may.” 

“Indeed, Katty, I’m not so sure I like bein’ at the 
great house. The old lady, that’s Miss Augusta, she 
has no likin’ for me, and Miss Jane, she’s afraid to go 
against her; and Mister Christopher, he only wants me 
as a model in his paintin’ room, and the servants, they 
frighten me with their queer ways an’ their hard 
looks. ” 

“The servints, is it? Have they anything to do wid 
you? I thought sure ’twas Miss Jane as was takin’ ye 
in charge, an’ she so nice an’ friendly too. ” 

“I cannot be always with Miss Jane. And meal- 
times I’m sent to the servants’ hall, and one of them — 
- Cherry, her name is — she will be floutin’ and scoffin’ 
me all the time. ” 

“The hussey! Is that the way it is? Castin’ 
aspersions! I know that sort av talk. But perhaps 
ye’re too quick to take offence, child. It’s no use 
payin’ attintion to them as is ill-natured or ill-bred 
enough to be showin’ the bad example. Ye’d best 
tell Miss Jane; she’s yer friend, the poor childless 
woman. There’s crabbed people, an’ unkind people 
to be met wid everywhere. Ye needn’t expect 
to be escapin’ them, even if ye’ve had a rise in 
the wurrld, that’s made the whole place wild wid 


13 


194 The Rubbish Heap 

the envy an’ the wonder av how it all happened to 
you. ” 

Mara sighed, and then took up an apron, and tied 
it round her childish waist, and commenced to clear 
the table. 

Katty watched her in silence. Every Sunday the 
child stepped back into her old place, fulfilled her 
old duties, never appearing to think that the change in 
her circumstances meant any change in her behaviour 
to her first friends. 

“It’s a wonder she is,” reflected Katty. “A won- 
der intirely, an’ himself couldn’t but say it. Mara,” 
she called suddenly, “don’t ye be troublin’ yerself to 
wash thim things, you in yer pretty Sundajr frock an’ 
all. They can stay there in the sink till there’s the 
dinner plates to kape them company.” 

“ But Katty,” came the gentle remonstrance, “ here’s 
the supper things of last night, an’ the pot half full of 
potayties. You’ll have enough to do if you add all 
that’s from the breakfast table. No, no ; I’ll be washin’ 
up as I used to do. I like it. ” 

“Well, it’s the quare taste ye have if likin' comes 
into the bizness. Meself, I hate the greasy water an’ 
the dirty pots. An’ why we fuss to clane thim one 
minnit whin it’s dirtyin’ them the next we’ll be, 
that’s more than any fool could be tellin’ us.” 

But Mara went on with her self-appointed task. 
She put everything neatly away, and swept the hearth 
and tidied the kitchen as if nothing had intervened 
between her first acceptance of such duties, and her 
recent adoption into another and very different life. 

While she was so occupied, it occurred to Katty 
Quirke that a gossip on the Quay might be as good a 
way as any of killing two birds with one stone. She 


The Lumber Room 


i95 


might gain some news of Michael’s vessel, and she 
might learn something of her less fortunate neigh- 
hours’ affairs and behaviour. 

She threw on her bonnet and shawl, which always 
hung on a nail behind the door convenient for sudden 
exits, and went out leaving Mara still “tidying up.” 

The Scene Changes to the Lumber Room 

When the kitchen looked as Mara liked it to look, 
and the bit of bacon and cabbage were set boiling in 
the pot, and the cold potatoes mashed and set in a pie- 
dish to be baked later on, the child opened the door 
into the shop, and thence went her way up the familiar 
crooked stairs to the lumber room. 

It looked just as when she had first seen it, save 
that now the brilliant sunshine held something of 
summer’s early warmth, and the sea was like a glowing 
turquoise set in the frame of the open window. For 
long moments she stood gazing out at a scene of whose 
beauty she never tired. Picturing what Miss Jane had 
told her of a past time of history, when the seaport 
had been a place of life and importance. When 
it had furnished assistance to the main fleet of the 
country, and sent its stalwart sons to the Hundred 
Years’ War. The child’s busy brain roved to and fro 
over changes and chances of Fortune, and saw the 
Quay as once more active, populous, and turbulent. 
She had read that in England’s “day of small things” 
her salvation had been those little ports. To their 
energy and pluck and loyalty of heart she owed her 
present greatness. But, like all conquerors, she had 
ill repaid her insignificant allies. And so the passing 
years had stamped with indifference, or neglect, the 
very defences that had helped her to importance. 


196 


The Rubbish Heap 

Turning away at last from that view of sea and sky 
and fairy islets, Mara moved slowly up to the Rubbish 
Heap. It seemed to have received some recent addi- 
tions since she had last seen it. A litter of papers 
and old torn envelopes were scattered over the top, 
and as she touched them, she saw a leather pocket- 
book lying there as if responsible for their escape. It 
was worn and shabby; the elastic band was thread- 
bare and incapable of holding it together, and as the 
child took it up, and turned it round, the two halves 
divided, and showed her an inner pocket in which was 
still another paper. 

She drew it out and glanced curiously at the writing. 
It was small and very fine and cramped. There were 
lines close together, and then a space, and a date and 
more writing. Her eyes turned from the page she held 
to the other pages torn apart and scattered. It 
seemed to her that the writing was the same. She 
put down the untorn sheet and took up some of the 
torn ones. Yes, undoubtedly the writing was the 
same. Not only that, but the pages were numbered, 
and the little gaps and dates seemed to signify a 
continuation of what the respective sheets contained. 
They had fallen out in such a way that the effort 
to page them in relation was not difficult, and the 
halves fitted so exactly that the shape of a tear indi- 
cated its corresponding fragment. 

Interested by so unusual a discovery Mara set her- 
self to work and pieced together the pages marked 
1, 2, and 3, respectively. To her surprise she found 
they made a story, at least that was what it seemed to 
her. It was written in diary form, hence the dates, 
and gaps in the pages, but of such form she was ig- 
norant. Only she wondered at the odd expressions, the 


The Lumber Room 


197 


names . . . Names? She read one over again. Why 
surely that was Irish? . . . and here was another. 
“ Aughavanna. ” How strange! she thought. And 
seating herself on the rubbish heap, she began to study 
the first three pages. The task was not easy, owing 
to the cramped writing, the queer expressions, and 
words, some quite unknown to her. She skipped a 
few paragraphs, and turned to another sheet. This 
seemed more legible. She caught something of what 
she called “the sense of it. ” 

“I never saw anything quite so beautiful , quite so 
wonderful , or quite so misunderstandable as this land 
of hers. It is like herself , and she is like it, and neither 
of them are quite the food for mortals that one has been 
led to believe. ” 

There came a gap. Mara laid the page down with 
the others, and picked up another fragment. As she 
turned it over she gave a little cry of surprise. 
Sketched on it with the accuracy and finish of an etch- 
ing was a tiny drawing. It represented a rough cot- 
tage, or cabin, standing in a little patch of ground, 
and in the distance a shadowy hill, tree-crowned, and 
vague. At the foot of it a figure had been swiftly 
sketched, its outline familiar enough to one who had 
seen the Irish peasant girl. But what made the little 
sketch so vivid was the face of a man, looking out from 
the trees, and seeming almost a part of them until the 
eye scrutinized the foliage. Once the face was de- 
tected it seemed the sole meaning of the picture, for it 
was vicious and evil, and the eyes were hateful in their 
mingled lust and jealousy. 

Even the child’s ignorance and innocence recognized 


198 


The Rubbish Heap 

the evil, and she shuddered as the paper slipped from 
her fingers. At the same moment she heard Katty’s 
voice from below calling to her. She rose to her feet, 
and leaving the papers there, ran swiftly down the 
stairs. 

The Scene Changes to the Kitchen Again 

Katty was hanging up her bonnet and shawl. The 
expression of her face was one of anxiety tempered 
by the usual Irish hopefulness. 

“Ah, you’re there, child? I’m glad ye’ve not gone. 
It’s seldom I ever get a talk wid ye; an’ sure, it’s 
the sad heart is with me today, the bad news I’ve 
been hearin’.” 

“Bad news?” Mara exclaimed. 

“ It is that. Tho’ no news at all would be nearer the 
mark, for ’twas all conjecturin’ they was, an’ none 
could say for certin’, that the ship was gone down, 
seein’ it had been spoken there’s a week today. ” 

“The ship? Michael’s ship, is it?” 

“I shouldn’t wonder at all. They do be sayin’ it 
was due here these six days past. An’ a fishin’ trawler 
sighted her over there, in distress. Off the Cornish 
coast it was; a wild bad place. There’s no wurrd 
av a wreck, but ’tis feared they are that’s what’s 
happened. ” 

“Oh Katty!” cried the child, breathlessly. 

“I’m not goin’ to make a widdy of meself before me 
time,” said the bereaved one cheerfully. “Sure, he 
might turn up any moment, even if ’twas shipwrecked 
he was. There’s many a man given up for dead that 
has come to life agin. An’ himself was a powerful 
strong swimmer, an’ had the good heart in danger. 


199 


Katty Quirke’s Kitchen 

But isn’t it the great hardship that I’d be losin’ the 
two av you nigh upon the same time.” 

Mara sat down near the table, and tried to think 
what was best to do. 

“If . . . if Daddy’s drowned in the shipwreck 
I’d best be cornin’ back to you again,” she said at 
last. “He brought me to you as company, so 
he’d say, and I’m thinking he’d not be willing that 
you should be alone.” 

“Well, child, if I’d say what was in my heart, it 
would be that I’ve missed you more than I’d ever 
suppose I could be missin’ any one, lave alone a child. 
But, it’s not for me to stand in yer way. All the 
same, evenin’ times I do be terrible lonely here, an’ 
but for the dhrop av whiskey to sustain me I’d hardly 
be kapin’ up at all. For there’s the hard work all the 
day, an’ the figurin’ up to credit, an’ I niver any sort 
av a hand at figures. It’s moithered I am oftener 
than not, an’ a wonder it is that I come out on the 
right side of expenses at the year’s end. ” 

“I can do addition sums, and the other sort too. 
I could be keepin’ the books for you, Katty dear, while 
you were at the sales. ” 

“Sure, honey, ye talk like the good child ye are. 
But I’m not one to be spoilin yer prospects by any 
wish av me own. It’s often what I’ve said to meself, 
there’s the great misfortunes in the wurrld, and meself 
has to have me share av thim. ” 

“Still, Katty, I mean it. I’d be more than willin’ 
to come back here and live with you the way himself 
wanted me to live. ” 

“An’ if that's what you’re sayin,’ there’s Miss Jane 
an’ Mister Christopher to be reckoned with. An’ 
after the nice clane house an’ all the grandeur ye’re 


200 


The Rubbish Heap 

after havin,’ why I couldn’t hear av it. An’ ’tis you’d 
be sick an’ sorry after the day’s work was over. ” 

“No, Katty, I’d be quite content. You see I could 
still be goin’ to Mr. Christopher if he was wantin’ me 
for his pictures, and then I’d see Miss Jane.” 

“Well, well, I’d not be settlin’ things too soon. 
There’s no reason why himself shouldn’t turn up one 
o’ these fine days. It wouldn’t be the first time I’m 
after hearin’ he’s lost at sea. An’ though the dog 
next door of Mrs. Blake’s did be howlin’ all last night, 
an’ a black crow flew over the yard when I crossed 
it an hour ago, I won’t be takin’ for granted that 
trouble’s at the street corner, nor yet at the front 
door. Ye’ll be stayin’ for dinner wid me, Mara 
darlin’?” 

“Yes, if you like, Katty. Miss Jane said I could 
stop if you wanted me. ” 

“Sure, child, an’ I do that, most times. An’ ye’re 
goin’ to lay the cloth? — the handy ways ye have!” 

Mara laid the cloth and put some delicacy of detail 
into the business that was unusual. Katty sat in the 
big old easy chair and watched her until the time for 
“dishing up.” That — she insisted upon doing her- 
self, and then the queerly assorted pair sat down to 
their simple meal. It was towards its close that Mara’s 
thoughts reverted to the lumber room and the papers. 
She put the question as to how and when they had 
been thrown there. Katty reflected for a moment. 

“I couldn’t rightly bring to mind where I’d be 
gettin’ them. Was it in the ould bureau, that I 
bought, or thim ould clothes that came to me, 
’tis a week or more? I’m thinkin’ ’tis the clothes. 
A quare ould suit; corduroy velvetty things, an’ the 
pockets stuffed with rubbish. The ould book was 


201 


Katty Quirke’s Kitchen 

that rotten it nigh fell to pieces in me hand, so I 
threw it an’ the papers on the ould hape upstairs. 
Don’t be tellin’ me you’ve been rummagin’ there 
this mornin’?” 

“I went up to the room, and I noticed the papers. 
Do you mind if I take them home with me, Katty?” 

“Home, is it? An’ you to be sayin’ ye’re not con- 
tented in the place. I niver heard ye call this house 
home; nor, indeed, would I be expectin’ it. As for 
the papers — what in the livin’ wurrld would ye be 
wantin’ wid a lot av ould torn letters, for that’s all 
they was to the best av my recollection?” 

“They seem to be a sort of — story. I began to 
read it. I should like to go on. ” 

“ The likes av that ! ” muttered Katty. “A story in 
a hape av ould torn letters ! Well, I’m thinkin’ who- 
ever wrote them is dead an’ gone this long time. Ye 
can have thim an’ welcome, if t’will be any pleasure 
to ye. Not bein’ well-eddycat'ed meself, an’ no great 
hand at readin’ even what’s put into print, I’d niver 
be wantin’ to get at other folk’s mysteries through 
letter-writin’. Ye don’t be makin’ much av a dinner, 
Mara. Ye’ve not picked up an appetite seemingly 
or else the food’s not to yer taste after what ye do be 
gettin’ at the Great House.” 

“ I eat no more there than I do here, ” said the child. 
“It’s little I care for food, as I’ve often told you.” 

“I’d suppose so, the way ye picks and nibbles at the 
good Irish bacon, as I bought the quarter side of on the 
last market day ... I like the way ye turned up 
thim purtaties, Mara. It’s meself ’ud niver have 
thought to do any more wid thim. Was it in the 
kitchen yonder ye learnt that now?” 

“Yes, I saw the cook do it.” 


202 


The Rubbish Heap 

“I suppose it’s the grand food they have, kitchen 
an’ parlour alike? An’ the way it ’ud be wasted on 
you! There’s a suet dumplin’ in the cupboard there; 
would ye set that down for a second coorse?” 

The child rose obediently. She moved back her 
chair, and the action set her facing the back door that 
led to the yard. 

Suddenly she gave a little cry. “Oh Katty, Katty ! 
Look!” 

The Irishwoman followed the gesture of the little 
hand. But she saw only the door and the blank 
space between. 

Then the hand clutched the back of the chair. A 
white terror-stricken face turned to her. “It was 
Michael, Katty! He stood there, just within the 
door, and the wet was pourin’ from his clothes like rain, 
and he looked at me, and at you ” 

“ Lord save us ! The blessed Mary help us ! You’ve 
seen his sperrit, Mara child . . . ochone! ochone! the 
good man’s drowned, an’ dead at the bottom av the 
sea, an’ me heart’s broken, an’ ’tis I’m the lone woman 
this day!” 

She covered her head with her apron, and rocked 
herself to and fro, while the startled wonder of the 
child’s face changed into frozen terror. 

“It was Michael — he himself . . . and yet the 
door’s close shut, and he’s not there . . . Where is 
he?” 


SCENE XV 


Christopher's Studio. Five o'clock — the same day 
The Action in the Scene 

Tomlinson had just brought up the tea-tray to 
the studio. The duty was Cherry Menlove’s, but this 
happened to be her “Sunday out,” so the butler 
took her place, much to Christopher’s relief. 

He had established as a custom these Sunday studio- 
teas, and Miss Augusta, though announcing dis- 
approval, had ended in accepting their invitation. 
It was extraordinary how she had yielded to Christo- 
pher and his innovations and alterations. Little by 
little the rigid observances had been broken down; 
the etiquette of rule and measure abandoned. It 
was as if a long-closed room had been thrown open to 
the air and the sunlight, and the change had brought 
about one of nature’s spring-cleanings. 

As for Miss Jane, her nature being more malleable 
and her years fewer in number, she had met the 
changes half-way. She had recognized that youth 
brings to middle age something it has missed and 
desired. An invigorating impulse; a freshness of 
thought and feeling; a sense of the joyousness of life 
that still exists. So that while Miss Augusta yielded 
slowly and reluctantly to the invigorating effects of 
203 


204 


The Rubbish Heap 

such youth, the younger sister stepped half-way to 
meet it. Timidly, and with infinite fear and hesita- 
tion, but still with a sense of welcome and receptivity. 

To her the Sunday teas were a delightful break in 
the monotony of Sunday as a day of observance and 
formal rules, and desperate dulness; meaning church, 
early dinner (to save the servant’s trouble), an after- 
noon of drowsy attempts to read “Sunday books”; 
tea in the drawing-room, evening service if the weather 
permitted, and then a cold supper, and bed. But 
Christopher had changed all this. In the first place 
he never went to church. He either took a walk to 
the Quay, and over the bridge to the pretty dip of 
country stretching to Anworthy, or he sat in the 
garden in the sunniest spot he could find, and read 
one of his objectionable French books. 

Miss Augusta had remonstrated and lectured in 
vain. Finally she gave up the struggle and ignored 
the unseemly behaviour of her nephew. To empha- 
size her disapprobation she had at first refused the 
studio-tea, and taken her own cup severely alone in 
the drawing-room. But seeing that her absence made 
no perceptible difference to Christopher’s instituted 
ceremony she took to dropping in casually, announc- 
ing that two separate teas gave double work to the 
domestics. Miss Augusta’s servants were always 
“domestics.” 

So it happened that on this particular Sunday when 
Mara had stayed on at the curio shop, the oddly 
assorted trio met in the studio at five o’clock. Miss 
Jane was a little disturbed by the prolonged absence 
of her young charge. As a rule if Mara went off in the 
morning she returned by two or three o’clock. If in 
the afternoon she would be back by six. 


205 


Christopher’s Studio 

Christopher, standing by the tea-table, filled the 
cups, added cream and sugar with the exactitude of 
knowledge, and handed them respectively to each 
of his aunts. His mood of excitement had passed into 
one of content. His foot was set on the way, and he 
saw a future vision of realization instead of that misty 
nebula which had hitherto stood for self-assurance. 

“Mara is late,” he said, proffering bread and 
butter to the two ladies, and then helping himself. 

“I was thinking so,” said Miss Jane. “I — I hope 
nothing has happened.” 

“What should have happened?” demanded Miss 
Augusta, her voice assuming that Sunday asperity 
which was its marked characteristic. 

“Oh nothing, of course, only she is usually back by 
this time.” 

“I strongly disapprove of that going to and fro 
between our house and that shop,” said Miss Augusta, 
setting down her cup with a decided snap. “Especi- 
ally on a Sunday. She ought to be at a Sunday-school 
or at church. When we were children we were 
always made to attend afternoon service.” 

“But, you forget, Mara is a Catholic,” said 
Christopher. “They go to early mass, or the morning 
service, and for the rest of the day that suffices itself. 
Your English Sunday — it is so dull, so conventional. 
Myself, I approve it not at all.” 

“You have informed us of that often enough, ” said 
Miss Augusta severely; “I regret very much that your 
foreign up-bringing has resulted in a complete in- 
difference to the pious examples of your ancestors. 
We have always been noted for the staunch up- 
holding of those great principles for which one has 
to thank the Reformation.” 


206 


The Rubbish Heap 

Christopher, by way of evading a controversy, 
dropped the cake basket on Miss Jane’s lap, and then 
apologized profusely. At that moment Mara en- 
tered, and closing the door behind her went up to Miss 
Jane’s chair. 

“There’s bad news behind me, Miss Jane,’’ she 
said. “I’ve been staying on with poor Katty there 
to try and cheer her. But she’s in a terrible takin’. 
There’s a rumour down at the Quay side of a wreck, 
and the vessel that’s gone is Michael Quirke’s vessel. 
’Tis long overdue.” 

“The good sea-captain! What then? . . . His 
vessel is wrecked, and he — what has he?” 

“We’re sure now that he’s drowned,” said the 
child mournfully. 

“But has Mrs. Quirke heard? Sometimes vessels 
are wrecked and the crew saved. Her husband may 
yet return — ” said Miss Jane. 

Mara’s eyes grew wistful. 

“He has returned,” she said. “He came there, 
and I saw him. Sad he looked, and the sea water 
drippin’ from his clothes, and he just stood at the 
door and looked at me — and herself — and then he 
wasn’t there at all!” 

Miss Jane’s face grew pale. As for Miss Augusta, 
she regarded the narrator of this extraordinary tale 
with undisguised disapproval. 

“ Really, child, it is time you learnt plain English, 
so as to acquaint us with facts in a comprehensible 
manner ! If this man’s ship has been wrecked, either 
he is drowned, or he is alive. In the latter instance 
I fail to see why he should present himself before his 
wife in the condition you describe — ‘dripping with 
sea water,’ wasn't it? Surely he would have been 


Christopher’s Studio 207 

able to change his clothes before arriving at his 
home?” 

“Ah, my good aunt, see you not what it is!” inter- 
posed Christopher. “It is a revenant , a ghost — so you 
say — that the poor child has seen. The good sea- 
dog he is no more. He has perished with his vessel, 
and he comes in the spirit to show that he has no 
longer the body. Mara, it is she that has the gift to 
see him as a revenant; the second sight as one says. 
Tell me then, p'tite , did the good Katty behold also 
the vision?” 

“No. She saw nothing. I cannot understand 
why. He was there just within the door; plain as 
life he was, and I goin’ to speak with him, and then — 
well, lie wasn't there to speak with. And Katty, she 
said ’twas a sign, and it’s mournin’ and sighin’ she is 
from that moment. Then she sent me back here, 
Miss Jane, to say I must be returnin’, for she can’t 
bear the loneliness with the fear that’s come to her.” 

Miss Jane gave a little gasp of dismay. “Go 
back, Mara? Does she want you there again, or is 
it only for tonight?” 

“I’m thinkin’ there will be many nights and days 
she’ll be wantin’ me, Miss Jane.” 

“But, child, you can't go back! I mean to live 
there. You know she promised you were to be in my 
charge, and that’s only a month ago.” 

“Yes, miss; I do know it.” 

“Well then, although I might agree to a short 
stay with Mrs. Quirke, I could not make up my mind 
to lose you altogether, Mara.” 

“I don’t see that you have any authority in the 
matter, my dear Jane, ” said her sister. 

‘ ‘ Authority — no. But surely this month counts for 


208 


The Rubbish Heap 

something? Don’t you remember our talk the other 
night, Mara, and what I promised?” 

“I remember, miss, and it’s yourself has been the 
kind friend to me. But you see the way it is, miss. 
Daddy Mike, he brought me to the place beyond, and 
he gave me to herself as help and company. And 
when I saw him standin’ there, so sad of face, and the 
water drippin’ off his poor drowned body, I felt 
I’d angered him, and had had no right to leave the 
home he gave me. So, when Katty was cryin’ fit to 
break her heart, I said I’d come back to her again. 
And that’s how it is, Miss Jane.” 

The slow painful tears of hurt pride and wounded 
affection filled Miss Jane’s gentle eyes. She could 
find no words. She was only conscious of a door shut 
in her face; of a set-back, as it were, on that path of 
philanthropy over which she had adventured. Mara 
would leave her; Mara did not want to stay. The 
little white room and the neat school books and even 
the five-finger exercises of Henri Hertz, these had 
preserved no constraining power. In some way she 
had failed to win the child’s affection as these com- 
monplace Irish folk had won it. 

The disappointment was very great. Involun- 
tarily she looked at Christopher. His eyes were fixed 
on Mara. He was reading into her sad little face 
and wistful gaze, the story so simply described. It 
sprang to life and formed for his queer fancy yet 
another study of this child. He saw the scene so 
clearly. The dripping figure, the blank gaze of the 
widowed woman, and the amazed welcome of the 
seer herself believing in the reality of the vision. 

“I must get that!” he cried to himself, with art’s 
cruel egotism. “I will paint it there in that kitchen. 


Christopher’s Studio 209 

if only I can memorize on my canvas that face of the 
good British sea-dog!” 

“There is no use in crying, Jane,” said Miss Augusta 
severely. “You have only yourself to blame for 
forcing this child into an unnatural and unsuitable 
existence. The class to which she belongs can have 
nothing in common with ours. I said so from the 
first. You see I was right.” 

But Mara gazed at the gentle face and suffused 
eyes of her gentle protectress and her heart ached for 
seeming ingratitude. 

“ Indeed, Miss Jane, I’ll never forget your goodness, 
and I’d not like you to be thinkin’ I wasn’t happy 
here. Perhaps when I’d be older, and things wouldn’t 
seem so strange, you’d let me come back to you. 
Anyways I could be seein’ you at times, for Mr. 
Christopher may be askin’ me to sit for a picture 
again, and that I’d always do, wherever I was to live.” 

“Of course I shall want you,” said Christopher. 
“See you then, my dear Jeanne, how wise she is, 
this little one. She goes back to the curio shop, 
because in that she sees her duty. But there will be 
hours — days — she could give to us. Is that not so, 
Mara?” 

“It will never be the same,” sighed Miss Jane. 
“ I had hoped to have an occupation, an interest, that 
would fill my empty hours. Already, she had made 
such a difference; and now — I must go back to the 
emptiness.” 

“ I am surprised to hear you speak like that, Jane, ” 
said Miss Augusta severely. “There are plenty of 
occupations open to you, either within or without this 
house. No well-brought-up young woman need ever 
seek for better employment than her own home and 


210 


The Rubbish Heap 

circle proffers to her.” She rose, having finished 
her tea, and feeling that further discussion was 
unnecessary. 

“I will take a walk in the garden,” she remarked. 
“ Perhaps you will join me, Jane, when you have 
accomplished the solution of this unpleasant state of 
affairs.” 

The door closed. Aunt and nephew turned to 
each other as if by a mutual impulse of relief. 

“My dear Christopher, you appreciate my dis- 
appointment?” 

“ Tres chere amie , I do; and I am grieved for your 
new scheme of usefulness nipped-of the bud, as you 
say. But, Jeanne, one thing you have accomplished. 
You have begun to live, to wake up, to see for your- 
self the joys and the sorrows and the tragedies behind 
your four high walls! That is something. And 
Mara, perhaps, when she is no longer here, she will 
appreciate more all that your kind heart prepared 
for her. Besides, we shall not lose her altogether, 
is it not so, Mara ? You will come here as often as you 
can, all the time when the good Irish Catherine does 
not need you. And Miss Jeanne, she can still be 
glad to play the institutrice, is it not?” 

“I shall be delighted to continue your lessons, 
Mara,” said Miss Jane. “It was a real pleasure to 
teach you. You were so intelligent and docile.” 

“It is the kind lady you are, Miss Jane, to offer 
to teach me still. And it’s more than sorry I should 
be not to see this beautiful room again. I’ve been 
so happy here ” 

“Yet — you feel you must leave us, Mara?” 

The grave eyes turned to the gentle questioner. 
“I do, miss. I felt it before today. There was 


Christopher's Studio 


2 II 


somethin’ always draggin’ me back. And sure, miss, 
I couldn’t be disobeyin’ the wish of the dead, and 
himself to come and remind me of it.” 

“Are you sure you saw him?” asked Miss Jane in 
an awe-struck voice. “You might have imagined 
the — the figure, after listening to Mrs. Quirke’s 
conjectures?” 

“I saw him as plain as I see yourself, Miss Jane; 
and little peace o’ mind I’ll be havin’ till I go to 
Father Conolly and ask him the meanin’ of it. For if 
the dead man lies at the bottom of the sea, how could 
he be cornin’ to show himself to me in the doorway 
there, and Katty lookin’ the same way as meself, and 
seein’ nothing at all?” 

“It is most extraordinary, ” said Miss Jane. “But 
there’s no authorized version of his death, Mara; the 
vessel may be wrecked and yet he may have escaped, 
and turn up safe and sound one of these days.” 

“If ever he does then, Miss Jane, it’s I that can 
promise to come back to you. But he won’t do it, 
and I’ll not be cornin’ back. That’s what my heart’s 
tellin’ me all the time.” 

“And are you returning tonight?” 

“I am, miss. I durstn’t be leavin’ her alone in the 
dark hours, and she keenin’ there like a lost soul. 
I came back here to tell it to you, and to change my 
frock. It’s little use now I’ll be havin’ for them 
silks and velvets.” 

“I shall keep them here for you, Mara, and when- 
ever you come to us you shall put them on again.” 

“Thank you, Miss Jane. But, perhaps, you’ll 
be seein’ another little girl, and puttin’ her into 
the white room, and givin’ her the pretty clothes, 
as you did to me?” 


212 


The Rubbish Heap 

“That — I never shall, Mara. I wanted you and 
only you, and I hope one day you’ll be able to come 
back to me. The room will always be there — 
waiting.” 

She rose as she spoke. “I’m going down to put 
your clothes together; the simpler ones that you’ll 
wear in the shop. Come with me, child.” 

But Mara hesitated. “There’s something I would 
be showin’ to Mr. Christopher. May I come down 
presently, Miss Jane?” 

“Very well. And oh! I forgot — you’ve had no 
tea. Give her some milk, Christopher, and a cake, 
and then send her down to me.” 

Christopher poured out some milk into a cup, and 
set it before the child. “Sit down there,” he said, 
“and eat some of that cake. I suppose it is that 
you have forgotten the dinner altogether today 
with this excitement?” 

Mara seated herself and drank the milk thirstily, 
but she ate nothing. After setting down the cup, 
she fumbled for a moment in the bodice of her linen 
frock, and finally produced some scraps of paper. 

“Would you look here, Mr. Christopher?” she said 
eagerly. “I was finding these this morning in the 
rubbish heap. There’s small queer writing in it, and a 
sort of a story, that I can’t half make out. And look 
at that picture ” 

Christopher took the papers and glanced at the 
little etching; then his eyes scrutinized the yellow 
paper and faded ink. 

He looked, and then looked again, and yet again, 
while the child watched him wonderingly. 

“Where then have you found these papers?” he 
exclaimed. 


213 


Christopher’s Studio 

“ On the rubbish heap, it was, sir. There’s more of 
them too, but mostly torn, and scattered about. I 
put these together as well as I could. Can you make 
any sense of it at all, Mr. Christopher?” 

He was reading the fragment marked I. Then he 
compared it with the other scraps. 

“By my soul! but I could swear to this writing! 
Have I not seen it . . . read it — a hundred times! 
And the little pen and ink sketch ? It is of a certainty 
his work, though how it should come to the resting- 
place of the rubbish heap ” 

“You — know the writing?” exclaimed Mara. 

“But yes. It has made my copy-books; it has 
ordered my studies, it has counselled and reproved me. 
It is the hand- writing of my father, Mara! And you 
say there is more of it?” 

“Yes, Mr. Christopher. I gathered up the pieces 
and I put them aside, and they’ll be there for you any 
day you’ll be wantin’ to see them.” 

“I must get them, ” he said huskily. “I will come 
there tomorrow. No — tonight, Mara! This is indeed 
of all things to me the most singular ! And again it is 
the Rubbish Heap, that stands for destiny. That 
brings about the event so momentous. What mystery 
shall I now discover? God alone knows! Certain 
it is that this is the hand- writing of my father, and the 
date — why I must have been but a little child myself. 
And the place? What a strange name ! ” 

“ It is an Irish name I was thinkin’, Mr. Christopher 
• — Aughavanna. There’s a story about that place, 
and it’s not so far from where I was livin’ with herself. 

“Irish! But never in my life has my father men- 
tioned that he was in that country.” 

“Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Christopher? Then, 


214 The Rubbish Heap 

perhaps, it’s not your father as was writin* those 
letters?” 

“They are not letters,” muttered Christopher. 
“They are — as one would say — a journal of record; 
a diary. This, you have secured, is but a fragment 
but even there I learn something I have never known 
before. Mara, ecoutez; listen to me. I return with 
you tonight. I go to that room. My impatience 
is not to be commanded of restraint. I must secure 
the rest of this journal. I must learn from the good 
Catherine how she comes to obtain it. Run off with 
yourself, and hasten and get together what you 
require. And — yet — wait still. Say nothing of this 
to my aunts, not one or other. It is no affair of theirs. 
They do not love my father; they think he was a bad 
man. But I love him, and I do not like that his 
memory should be less esteemed by anything I may 
discover.” 

“I will say nothing, Mr. Christopher. I did not 
even tell Katty that I was bringin’ the papers to you.” 

“You have the discretion of a diplomate , Mara. 
I am glad of it today. Depart now; I hear the heavy 
step of the good Tomlinson. I will dress and await 
you in the hall below.” 


AN INTERLUDE 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 
March, 1878. 

There are few pleasanter things than to roam 
the country-side with a light heart, a knapsack on 
your back, and just enough money in your pockets 
to provide the simple fare that is all you need. Since 
that never-to-be forgotten day when I ran away 
from Bruton House Academy and begged, or fought, 
or worked myself to the cargo boat and the shores of 
Brittany I’ve never had more than sufficed for the 
day’s needs. Perhaps I am a vagabond by instinct. 
I only know that my soul or whatever it is that 
means myself, was a rebel from its birth hour, and 
that the prim nursery and the stiff formal rules of 
home made of the rebel an insurgent of the first order. 
Was I ever out of mischief? Did I ever conform to 
one single rule of conduct laid down by parental 
authority and enforced by nursery autocrats? I 
think not. And always in my heart there surged up 
a longing for freedom, for the power to act, move, 
think, even eat without that eternal reminder of 
restraint. I believe I cared for no one. Neither 
father, nor mother, nor my prim mincing sisters, nor 
my nurse, or governess. Then came home banish- 
ment and school. The sort of “seminary for young 

215 


216 


The Rubbish Heap 

gentlemen” that was the by-product of brains long 
gone to seed ; an affront to all sense of manliness or in- 
dependence. I stood it as long as I could for two rea- 
sons. One, that I wanted to learn certain things; the 
other, that I liked the queer old hunchbacked French- 
man who taught the drawing class and who singled me 
out as a pupil of talent. I appreciated that and I 
followed his instructions as far as my erratic soul 
permitted. . . . One day there was a row royal in the 
school. I had lost my temper and insulted the head- 
master. He was a fool and a bully. I think I 
told him so. He said he should write to my father, 
and expel me. I saved him the trouble. I rolled up 
a few clothes into a bundle, strapped them together 
with a couple of book-straps borrowed from two of the 
other boys (without permission), dropped out of the 
window, climbed over the garden wall, and hailed my 
first glimpse of Freedom ! , 

I cannot, at this present time, recall all that hap- 
pened, except that I suffered few privations, and lived 
as any careless joyous vagabond can live, if he makes 
up his mind to do so. 


In Brittany I helped the fishermen, made queer little 
sketches of their wives and babies for which they 
paid me by free lodgings or food, idled or worked as 
the fancy took me, picked up all sorts of queer habits 
and phrases, and was as happy as a lark. 

Sometimes a travelling artist would talk to me, 
as I watched him sketching. They abound on the 
Breton coast, those artists, and use up their studies 
for big pictures at some later time. From them I 
picked up many hints, and learnt to use brush and 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 217 


colours. But then the roving mood would overtake 
me and I must be off again, either sailing the seas 
in the big trawlers, or roaming the country as com- 
panion to some travelling showman, with his animals 
and his queer bagpipes. Good days they were; 
glorious for all their pinch of hunger or absence of 
roof. I look back upon them now with a pang of 
envy seeing in my four rooms, and my good stolid 
wife, a bondage that irks my soul. It is true I escape 
them — on occasions — but it is a matter of much 
subterfuge, and one does not always jeter de la poudre 
aux yeux with the success that one desires. However, 
I do get away, and needless to say I employ my liberty 
to advantage, having as little conscience as a man 
needs when he owns the temperament of the artist. I 
married the good Marie because she believed she loved 
me, and because she had a comfortable little business 
of her own that offered me a pied d ter re and comfort. 
But she was incurably jealous, and she would never 
permit me to use any of her pretty assistants as models. 
She was a dressmaker of the people, the good Marie, 
and had a clientele of the bourgeoisie excellent in its 
way. They paid their bills with the same stolid regu- 
larity as they ordered their dresses, and when they 
paid Marie would hand me over a portion for myself. 
When I had accumulated sufficient of these portions 
to make a decent sum for travelling expenses I would 
start off on a tramp of my own. Knapsack and 
sketch-book as equipment; my light heart keeping 
company with my light heels. The child (I have not 
mentioned him yet), was usually with a nourrice 
in the country. Our small flat, or appartement } not 
being suitable for a child. Also, I felt no interest 
in him. He was ugly, and sallow, and delicate. An 


218 


The Rubbish Heap 

anomaly of nature, it seemed to me, when I looked 
at my own face and Marie’s stolid figure. But there ! 
we cannot choose our offspring any more than they can 
choose their parents. 

It was strange that idea of Marie’s that she should 
spend a week & la campagne with her child, while I 
went off on a sketching tramp. “ If I find him grown, 
improved, see you then, Philippe, I shall bring him 
home. I have it in my mind to take one of the new 
top flats in those new boulevards, so recently laid out. 
There, one has air, light, space. The child will do well, 
and he will be company for us now he is of an age of 
interest, le p'tit .” 

I shrugged my shoulders. I could not understand 
that the child would be of any interest to either of us, 
but I knew something of French mothers, and acqui- 
esced with a good grace. Then we parted, and each 
went separate ways. She to her farm-house and her 
child ; I to liberty and adventure. 

Alas! . . . had I but known what that adventure 
meant — but blindfold we walk along Life’s highway 
knowing nothing of what lies round the first turning 
— or the last ! 


April, 7th 

It is many years since I have set foot on my native 
shores. I had not left Paris with any such intention. 
But I think a picture and a railway station had some- 
thing to do with it, or was it the colour? A green so 
vivid, so emerald pure that the scene jumped to my 
eyes, as they say here, and I took a train and then a 
steamer and another train and another steamer and on 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 219 


the morning of forty-eight hours later I found myself 
in that scene as I had seen it. A fairy bay; a sky of 
sapphire; hills so softly rounded, so tenderly green; 
queer strange vehicles, and queer-sounding voices 
that were scarcely less foreign to me than those of 
Breton or Finisterre. 

I landed myself, and waiving aside the offers of 
strange tattered men, and wheedling boys, I shoul- 
dered my knapsack and set forth to explore a new 
country. It was a city — this — fine and prosperous, 
though with queer strangled thoroughfares and dirty 
streets. I walked along, pleased with the life and 
bustle of it all. On every side I heard the same 
queer talk; neither the English that I remembered, 
nor the foreign tongues and idioms of later acquaint- 
ance. But the faces were gay and smiling, and there 
was something in the air that went to one’s head 
like wine. Electrical, inspiring it was. I breathed 
it into half-stiffed lungs and laughed aloud for joy. 
As I laughed a face would turn, or a glance meet mine, 
and we would smile in friendly recognition of a mutual 
gladness in just — Life. 

So I made acquaintance with this enchanted land, 
and set forth to learn for myself something of its 
history and its people. 

I have travelled west for many days. I have 
sometimes taken a train or a market cart, and some- 
times walked over the rough stony roads, or across the 
queer valleys that lie in a triangle of mountains, 
among deserted villages, and miserable cabins. The 
country here all speaks of poverty. Behind it lies 
a tragedy whose memory is written on the wrinkled 
faces of the old, and in the sorrowful eyes of the 


220 


The Rubbish Heap 

young. I have heard it called “the great trouble, ” 
the “time of the great hunger,” the “Valley of Sor- 
row”; all of these names suit it to this day. All of 
them bring to me that sense of living in a strange world 
among a strange tragic people. 

The country here is melancholy and wild. There 
are no decent inns, and only miserable cabins. The 
ground is poor and yields little. That may be the 
reason why so little is done to it. No one seems to 
have any heart to labour. As long as the potato 
crop yields its due, and the ever ubiquitous pig fetches 
his price they ask no more. I am beginning to under- 
stand their way of talking now, and I like to hear 
them. The women specially, so soft and musical 
those subdued tones, and odd inflections. 

I have made many sketches; scraps and bits of 
things; impressions, faces, what time a meal is being 
prepared, or a girl walks to the byre for milking, or a 
man drives an obstinate porker the way he would 
not go. 

The weather is delicious. The magic of spring is 
in the air, and in the budding green of tree and shrub, 
and the level spaces of the valley. 

Tomorrow, I am going further afield, to another 
village once famous in history. There are legends 
enough about it, and whether true or false I cannot 
tell. But I hear it is “a”wonder for scenery, with 
the strang: black lakes in the shadow of the moun- 
tains, and the wild coast and the queer little cabins.” 

Anyway I am going there. I set out at daybreak. 
The place is called Aughavanna. 

I had company in my tramp today. A fellow artist. 
A queer reticent Enghshman who has come to the 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 221 


Erinian Isles for subjects. (I give the place that 
fanciful title to please myself.) He was inclined to 
grumble at the hopeless state of the country. The 
absence of any decent hotels, the difficulty of getting 
any eatable food, the whole “ don’t-care-if-I-do- 
or-don’t ” attitude of the people. He talked of 
Fenian outbreaks; of the general lawlessness and 
impossibility of the peasantry. They have been a 
thorn in the flesh of the governing nation. An endless 
trouble and worry. 

“Why not pluck out the thorn, and give it back to 
them ? ” I suggested. He looked annoyed. He asked 
if I was a Socialist? I told him — no, only a vagabond 
artist, who had learnt the joys of freedom. Art is a 
key that opens many doors — even the door of con- 
straint. He told me he was also an artist. That this 
was his first visit to this queer land of contradictions; 
that he specially desired to paint one particular valley 
and mountain of which he had heard, and that it lay 
near by that place with the haunting name for which 
I was bound. 

As the day waned and we found ourselves near our 
destination we agreed to share such accommodation as 
could be procured. This meant the discovery of a 
little farm-house hard by the village itself. The owner 
was absent, but his wife offered us a room and a meal, 
and when we saw that the one was clean, if homely, and 
the other a matter of a boiled chicken and bacon we 
closed with the offer at once. And thus it happened 
that we sat down to our first meal in each other’s 
company and that the shuttlecock of Fate wove into 
the pattern of my careless life the threads of another 
destiny. For on that night I first saw . . . 

(Here comes a gap in the diary) 


222 


The Rubbish Heap 

There is just one hour, one day, maybe one year (if 
he’s fortunate) that stands out in a man’s life for some- 
thing whose meaning he and God alone may know. 
And by “God” I don’t mean the cloud-crowned, 
angel-tended, impossible Being that the Church and 
the pious folk of Christendom have shown us. No. 
I mean that Uplifting Something which means the 
greatest good in life, even if we don’t attain it. I 
had taken my careless vagabond self so lightly; had 
neither felt deeply nor suffered deeply, and then at 
one unexpected moment I faced that hour of which I 
have spoken ... I see the picture now. 

A sloping road that rises to the hill ; the gold of the 
setting sun illumining the trees that crown it, and 
standing, looking upwards, a solitary figure. Its 
natural grace, the poise and exquisite balance of 
it arrested my attention, and thrilled my artistic 
sense of proportion. I stood silently watching, 
wrapped in the sheer delight of the artist who meets 
his ideal at last. Her back was turned to me; her 
burnished head was ablaze with the splendour of the 
sunset and its own crown of lustrous red-gold hair. 
If I could have set her there on my canvas — but I had 
only my little sketch-book, and the few rapid lines that 
strove to convey her mocked my own feebleness. 
Then she turned and saw me. 

We stood there in silence gazing at each other. 
Her face half-light, half-shadow was the most exqui- 
site thing I had ever seen. The shape, the colouring 
! were of that noble type preserved by the ancient 
races. The modelling was so perfect that my pencil 
called frantically for its transcription, and when with 
the audacity of Art I called — “Stop where you are — 
just one moment!” she did stop, and she maintained 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 223 


the same pose. Then, after a minute, I shut up the 
book and looked at her again. “Thank you, ” I 
said, “you were very kind to humour me.” 

I went nearer, wondering a little at her silence, 
and her stillness. As I reached her, and met her deep 
strange eyes I felt abashed at my boldness. So might 
a princess hold her head, and challenge an intrusive 
subject. I stammered a few hasty words. I feared 
she did not understand me, for my English had become 
half French, and of Irish, as the real Celts spoke it, I 
knew nothing. However she seemed to gather that 
I was some sort of travelling nondescript, and when I 
pointed to the farm-house as my place of abode, she 
broke her silence at last. “That would be Danny 
Carrow’s farm. My aunt is married to him. It’s 
my home as well.” 

Now in those few words read a life’s tragedy. 

May 20th. 

II It* s my home as well! ” 

To say the words were music is to say little; to put 
into their meaning what my heart was to know of deep 
joy, and passionate memory, and bitter shame is 
beyond me. 

I write this long after that golden evening when I 
first looked upon her face; long after the fierce fires 
of passion and jealousy have died out. I think of 
drifting weeks that slowly yet swiftly shaped them- 
selves into joys unforgettable. Of a friendship whose 
first hours knew nothing of threatened rivalry. Of 
wonderful mornings with the sun upon the mountain 
heights, and evenings steeped in dewy hours of peace. 
But of all those hours meant I dare not write. 

We stayed on, he and I, both ostensibly at work on 


224 


The Rubbish Heap 

the subjects we had sought in this most lovely district, 
and yet both conscious of a deeper meaning in our 
prolonged stay. He was very different from me. 
A serious, self-absorbed man, ignorant of women, and 
indifferent to them as a sex. A man to whom Art 
was the first, chief, resplendent problem of life. 


I could see what was happening. He himself was 
not conscious of it. He would be one of those martyrs 
who suffer till they reach the breaking point before 
acknowledging suffering. The strange thing was that 
neither of us knew the other’s name. We got no 
letters. We seemed utterly removed from the outer 
world. We just existed for each day as it came, and 
for our art as its leaping fires sprang out to grasp a 
subject, or a model. 

He was far above me as an artist in every sense of 
the word. Far above me too in point of position and 
education. But in the one essential thing that had 
come to meet us here, in these solitudes, I was his 
superior. I had the gay tongue and light heart of 
the adventurer. I had stores of knowledge, romance, 
dangers such as had never come into his well-ordered 
life. And I could charm that beautiful Moira , 1 na 
ginaiga ordha, by the hour with just that silver- 
tongued carelessness which seems to appeal to women. 

I meant no harm — at first. There was something 
in the simple dignity of the shy wild creature that 
fenced her with its own safeguards. Something 
in her eyes, deep, mysterious, that forbade intrusion. 
And but for one thing I should have never dared 
overleap that barrier, or put into words what honour 


1 (Irish, Moira of the golden head.) 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 225 


forbade, even to me who cared little for the honour of 
the world’s labelling. 

One thing. 

There was a man, young, handsome, evil-living, 
who had chosen to come a- wooing this mountain maid. 
He was not there when I first put up at the farm-house, 
but later he arrived on the scene, and it seemed to me 
was suddenly acclaimed by the other youths of the 
village as a sort of hero. Little I knew or cared for 
factions and hostilities, for discontents and political 
troubles. But the whole of the county was seething 
and bubbling with rumours and conspiracies, and this 
very province was a hotbed of sedition. The fact 
that I and my compagnon de voyage were strangers, 
set us at once as objects of suspicion. We were 
watched and spied upon, though we were uncon- 
scious of the fact, and in greater peril than we im- 
agined. 

So it was that one night my golden goddess came to 
me and with frightened eyes and trembling lips be- 
sought me to leave the place. In her deep anxiety 
for my safety I read the secret I had not dared to 
question. 

I promised to leave on condition that she would 
accompany me. In the madness and blindness of 
that first realization of passion I threw all scruples 
aside. 

God knows what lies I told, what oaths I breathed, 
what a tornado of repressed and released feelings that 
visit of hers had brought about. 

She did not attempt to resist it. Her love matched 
mine. There was only for us in that mad hour our 
need, and our fear, and our desperate situation, 
is 


226 


The Rubbish Heap 

. When the dawn broke we were far from A ughavanna. 
We were in the heart of the mountains that she knew 
so well, and for the rest — the great wild glory was 
upon us that knows no laws but its own. The great 
sea of passion had swept us off our feet, and the 
world held nothing but our two lawless and most happy 
selves ! 

I was too ignorant of this strange country to form 
any idea as to localities. I know that we secured food 
and shelter where they were securable, and for the 
rest trusted to nature. 

The people regarded us with either curiosity, or 
indifference. Some named us “foreign gipsies,” 
for my lovely Moira had covered her head with an old 
coloured handkerchief of mine, and, for my own 
part, I wore the loose shirt and short breeches of the 
tramp tourist. 

Sometimes we rested by the wayside and I sketched 
as she slept. Sometimes she sang for me the mourn- 
ful strange songs of her country. Sometimes we 
talked, or rather I talked, and she listened. I told 
her of my boyish adventures, my queer twisted life, 
of all that concerned me save that woman who waited 
for me in Paris, or the ties that bound me to home and 
child. 

Possibly my conscience was deadened. ... I do 
not know. Certainly it never troubled me then. 

I come now to a black and horrible day in this 
month of this strange year. 

In our wandering we had come upon a little de- 
serted cabin, hidden away in a nook of the hillside. 
It had one habitable room, and there we settled 


The Wheels of Time Roll Back 227 


ourselves as tenants. A snared rabbit, a wild bird, 
a handful of meal or potatoes, these served us for 
food. A wooden plank bed built up against the wall 
was resting place enough. She gathered leaves and 
grasses, and heaped them there, and for me her arms 
made paradise. 

It was scarce dawn, when one morning I woke to a 
sudden sense of fear. Woke, and started up. I saw 
gazing in through the broken window frame an evil 
face — eyes of furious hate. 

I wondered if I dreamt, or fancied it, for even as I 
looked, it was gone! 

I closed my eyes and lay back again, beside that 
helpless, fragrant loveliness of womanhood, so trust- 
ingly given to my keeping. . . . 

(God! — if You are judging me, be merciful to her. 
I had never meant to harm one hair of that dear 
head) . 

“Perhaps I was dreaming,” I said to myself, and 
gathered her loveliness into my longing arms, and 
slept, and dreamt again. The sun was high in heaven 
when I woke, startled by fierce clamour of voices. 
The place swarmed with men. A villainous crew, 
armed with sticks, and old rusty guns, and their 
own lawless wills. I sprang to my feet and she fol- 
lowed, clinging desperately to my arms, her wild 
eyes filled with such terror as I have never seen in any 
eyes. 

For she knew what it meant. . . . 


SCENE XVI 


Christopher's Studio . Midnight 

• • . . . • 

The Action in the Scene 

That — was the last fragment of all the torn pages 
Christopher had found in the rubbish heap, and 
patiently pieced together. 

As it fluttered from his grasp, he sat like one lost in 
speculations. He was confronted by a mystery in 
his father’s life that seemed to defy solution. 

His memory travelled back to that father. He 
could even dimly remember the time in Paris when he 
had come from the country and his nourrice, and 
found a new joy in gazing over roof-tops, and skele- 
tons of buildings, and the queer high telegraph wires. 
When his mother and her girl workers had made 
much of him, and the workroom, with its bits of gay 
fabrics, and odds and ends of silks had been also a 
playroom for his childish hours. 

There seemed a long time in that flat, and that 
playroom before another figure entered upon the 
scene. He tried to recall its advent, but could only 
remember a certain anxiety and unrest in his mother’s 
eyes before the day when a letter reached her. Its 
contents made her weep ; yet it occasioned an immedi- 
ate life and stir in the place that heralded change. 

228 


Christopher’s Studio 229 

That night, when she kissed him in his little bed 
beside her own, she told him that the morrow would 
bring his father. That he must be very good, and 
very quiet, for he was ill, this father. Had even been 
near to death. A stranger — who had rescued him 
from this danger — had written to her. (“Thy father, 
see then, he could not write, his arm is injured. But 
he returns. ... We shall see him soon. Perhaps 
this next day.”) 

The boy had been full of curiosity respecting this 
unknown father. For long he could not sleep for 
thinking of those words, that coming meeting. Yet, 
as he sent his thoughts back, the meeting had held 
nothing very momentous. A haggard, shabbily 
dressed man, his arm in a sling. One strange white 
streak of hair among the black. Eyes full of pain, 
and something unfathomable that his childish soul 
could only recognize as sorrow. 

He had not seemed to care about his wife, his 
home, the little son who gave him timid greeting. 
He was as one to whom all present things meant 
nothing. 

As the weeks went by, and his health improved, 
that strange sadness seemed still to haunt him. The 
child made tentative approaches to affection, to 
confidence, but he soon recognized his father lived in 
a world of his own; a world of memories, over which 
he brooded in solitary gloom. 

Then came a gap of years. The boy's mind leaped 
to better days. To the interest at last taken in his 
own queer little self; his dawning talent; his passion 
for knowledge. 

How much he knew, this strange father. How much 


230 


The Rubbish Heap 

he had seen, into what strange lands he had travelled. 
He taught the boy as no paid teacher could have 
done, for he taught him from his own mental store- 
house of gathered knowledge. He set such things 
before him in the light of a vivid fancy. Painted life, 
adventures, scenes, as only one can paint who has 
lived through their meanings. Those were happy 
days. The boy was not strong physically, but his 
mind was quick, and avid, and he and his father had 
much in common. Notably that talent for drawing. 
The elder man had made little practical use of his 
proficiency. Brush and canvas seemed too heavy a 
medium for his quick-brained fancies. He chose water 
colours, and there seemed little sale for them. But 
when he recognized his boy’s gift he set to work to 
aid its expression. He taught him all he knew, and 
gave him happy wonderful weeks of travel, wherein 
he saw scenes, and cities, and people that stimulated 
his imagination, and further assisted the development 
of his talent. 

From twelve to sixteen years of age seemed to 
Christopher the happiest time of his life. The two 
years that followed were rather tragic. His mother 
died suddenly. Her business was sold, the flat 
given up, and he and his father went to live in a 
cheaper part of Paris. But they were excellent 
friends now, and this Bohemian existence seemed 
all they asked of life. 

Then the shadow fell again. Illness, long and 
painful, and stress and poverty; for the savings of the 
good stolid Marie were rapidly melting. The boy 
tried his hand at many things; painting signs for 
inns and shops ; the designs for bonbonnihres and fancy 


23 X 


Christopher’s Studio 

boxes; occasionally a happily caught caricature for 
some cheap illustrated journal. 

And then one day, when the shadow was very, very 
near, his father told him of his home in England. Of 
the two wealthy maiden sisters from whom he had 
heard no word for nearly thirty years. He gave the 
boy their address and directions how to get there. 

“This — at least, I can do for you, ” he said. “After 
all I forfeited my own rights for their benefit, but you 
are innocent of any wrong doing, and stand as my 
heir, and they are unmarried and childless. Go to 
them when I am no more. You are not strong 
enough to battle with poverty and ill-fortune. Be- 
sides, there is no need. The home of your ancestors 
awaits you. You must make your claim. And if 
you can get good teaching, pursue your art with all 
that is best of you, for you have something so nearly 
genius, that it is bound to bring you success, perhaps 
fame. ... In that old desk you will find papers, all 
that concerns you. Take them, and make your 
way to the country I left so long ago. May it bring 
you better luck than it ever bestowed on me.” 

“That — ” reflected Christopher, “brings me up 
to the date of my resolution, and my appearance here. 
But from whence have these strange records come? 
. . . They were not in that desk. They were not 
even among the papers, sketches, fragments I waded 
through before I left Paris. . . . It is in truth a 
mystery unaccountable. . . Tomorrow I will question 
the good Catherine of how she came by this pocket- 
book. Perhaps it is that she will be more composed 
of mind, and able to remember!” 

He turned to the odd little pile by his side. By 


232 


The Rubbish Heap 

aid of gum and stamp paper he had converted the 
fragments into pages. 

In those pages lay the one secret his father had 
never breathed, nor his mother ever suspected. It 
was beyond measure provoking that the story should 
have broken off just at its most interesting point. 
That he would never know what had happened after 
those fierce men had tracked down the truants. 
Never know how his father's arm received that 
wound which had partially disabled it. Never 
know what had chanced to the wonderful “ Moira of 
the golden hair" who had thrown in her lot with his 
for sake of the love she bore him. 

With a sigh he rose from the divan; gathered the 
papers together, and locked them away in the old 
bureau he had picked up as a bargain at the curio 
shop. 

“If only I could find out how they came to this 
country — this place — that ‘Rubbish Heap,”’ he 
thought. “ Is it always to be that that queer unsightly 
pile circumscribes my destiny ? It gave me my first 
model; it brought to me my best teacher; it will sell 
for me my first picture. And now it has sent forth 
this mysterious message — from the past." 

But the explanation of that message was very 
simple. 

Among the queer odds and ends and effects Christo- 
pher had brought from Paris had been a trunk of old 
clothes. Travel-stained, dusty, moth-eaten, they 
had had no use except for their association with his 
father. The trunk had been carried to a discarded 
attic by Miss Augusta’s orders. She had asked him 
if the contents might be consigned to the dust-bin. 


Christopher’s Studio 233 

and he, in the heat and eagerness of preparing his 
atelier , had nodded a careless assent. From the dust- 
bin to Katty Quirke’s shop was a natural transla- 
tion of dust-bin authorities. She had purchased them 
for a shilling or two, examined the pockets of coats 
and breeches, and in one pocket had found the leather 
case, and the torn-up papers. Useless as salable 
commodities she had thrown them into her depository 
for the unsalable. They had lodged on the rubbish 
heap, until Mara had discovered them. 

There the mystery rested. 

But Christopher in his studio, and Mara in the old 
curio shop, and yet a third participator in the sequel 
of those papers, took up the threads of Fate from that 
strange day of discovery. Went on weaving the 
pattern into their respective lives. Saw the seasons 
change, and the fate of nations alter, and the old town 
itself shake off some of its lethargic slumber. Saw 
all this; parted, and met again. For the story was not 
yet concluded, and the actors in it were yet required 
on the stage. 


SCENE XVII 


The Lone Isle. Five Years Later 

Garden and verandah, and the “wonderful room, ” 
are once more aglow with the glory of a spring morning, 
and the glory of daffodil time. 

The verandah wears the aspect of an open-air studio. 
Easels, plaster casts, palettes, brushes, studies half- 
finished, or just begun, lie about in all directions. 
The sides have been framed with glass, in case of wind 
or storm, but on this April morning it is open to the 
golden warmth of sunshine, and the fragrance of the 
flower-scented air. 

With regard to the owner of the place he is little 
changed. He sits at his breakfast table as on that 
morning five years ago, when he permitted disturbance 
of his tranquil isle, and opened his wounded heart to 
the service of others. It is of those others he thinks 
now for as artist and model they occupy much of his 
time. 

In winter time there is little work done, but once 
spring dawns upon the world the island wakes into 
activity, and almost every day brings one or both of 
his ‘ * pupils ’ ’ to cheer his solitude. He calls them that 
indiscriminately. For if he has taught Christopher 
to paint, he has taught Mara to live. The lessons 
to both were conducted on principles of his own, 
234 


The Lone Isle 


235 


drawn from the store-house of unusual knowledge, 
and helped by authorities of the first order of merit. 

To Mara, learning was a delight, and the island her 
real home. From the day of her return to the curio 
shop, Marmaduke Dax had set about rescuing her 
from the more sordid aspects of life. Katty made no 
difficulties so long as the child was there when she 
wanted her. The fact of her return from the Great 
House to the shop had amazed the queer old Irish- 
woman. But, in gratitude for such unselfishness, she 
gave her all the liberty she desired. 

So it came to pass that the little electric boat sped 
to and fro between islet and mainland, and few days 
went by without a visit to its owner. 

Thus matters stand when the scene opens again, 
and action takes the place of retrospect. 

The Action in the Scene 

The day was yet young, when the electric boat 
brought two passengers to the island. 

Marmaduke Dax, sitting in the wide verandah, 
watched the two figures approach, and as he watched 
he recognized for the first time that they were no 
longer the “children” his own heart had christened 
them. 

Christopher had changed very little. The thin 
clean-shaven face preserved its look of boyhood. 
There was still something of the “faun” about the 
faint crooked smile; a lurking humour in the grey eyes. 
Only when excited, or enthusiastic, did they gain 
brilliance, and illumine that pale ascetic face as by a 
flash of the light that burned within. 


236 


The Rubbish Heap 

He called out a gay greeting to the “Master,” as 
he still named him, and ran lightly up the verandah 
steps. He had lost the lameness that had once 
hampered his movements, just as he had lost the 
queer trick of speech which had marked his mode 
of expression. 

He had been to Paris and Italy in those years, 
and studied Art in its noblest aspects. But he had 
always returned to his first master with renewed 
affection; a deeper appreciation. As he greeted him 
now there was an echo of spring’s joyous melody 
in his voice. 

“Good morrow to you. What a day! What air! 
What light! You seem to have all the gold of the 
world around you, cher maitrel Is there a month of 
the year to rival April? . . . No, don’t quote — 
‘Oh! to be in England,’ for it is not an English 
spring I mean. I have a fancy to carry out a long 
deferred project.” 

“ Not travelling again, are you?” said the old artist, 
looking a welcome to Mara’s lovely face, as she held 
out her hand. 

“Yes. But not so far that you might not come too. 
Ah — if you only, only would. ” 

“I have told you my travelling days are over, my 
dear boy. I neither want to change my residence nor 
my mode of life, as long as that life is mine to keep 
unchanged. ” 

“Well, we have come to breakfast, and to tell you 
our plans,” said Christopher, throwing down his hat 
and shaking back the loose hair from his brow. ‘ ‘ Plow 
good the coffee smells ! My worthy aunts have never 
such coffee as yours. I cry up its merits, and make 
suggestions, but I fear the cook has grown old in 


The Lone Isle 


237 


iniquities, and will not repent and be converted.” 

Mara had said nothing. Only she seated herself at 
the table, as if it were her natural place, and poured 
out the coffee, and handed the cups to each of the 
men. 

“I am hungry,” said Christopher, and seized the 
toast-rack, and put two slices on his plate. “ I was up 
very early, and worked for a full hour at that torso of 
Hercules. I can’t get it right, cher maitre; I wonder 
why it is? But no matter, I am going to nature for 
a change, and shall study her moods in a land where 
those moods are poetically variable. Where do you 
think I am going?” 

“It sounded like — Caledonia.” 

He shook his head. “ No, the sister isle. Long ago 
I and Mara agreed to go there for a purpose. I’m 
afraid other events put the purpose out of our minds, 
at least out of mine. But suddenly it came back. 
I have a fancy to paint in the open. I want hills and 
valleys, and sunlight and shadow. You may say I get 
them all here , but I have been reading of Lough Neagh 
and of Derg and of Ina. They fired my imagination. 
I want to find out what inspires them. So it is I 
remembered an old promise, and I asked Mara to come 
with me, for it is her land, as you know. Now, cher 
matire , if you would only join us?” 

“Join you — go there!” There was something al- 
most fierce in the usually quiet voice. “ Impossible ! ” 

“ Nothing is impossible, unless we make it so. Why 
are you so averse to the idea?” 

“I have my reasons. ” 

“Reasons connected with a certain little gem you 
keep in the dark corner of the ‘wonderful room’? 
Ah pardon! I did not mean 


238 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Do not ever speak to me of that country,” said 
Dax sternly. He rose abruptly, and pushed back his 
chair. “ If you go there I would rather not hear of it. 
And Mara — why should she accompany you?” 

“Why not ? We are brother and sister to all intents 
and purposes. Where’s the harm ? ” 

“There’s no question of harm; only ” 

“Mara wants to come. She has thought of it for 
five long years, yet kept silence for fear I had not 
meant what I promised.” 

“ Did you — promise? ” 

“ I believe so. I pictured the adventure of the knight 
errant. In truth I wished to discover the mystery, if 
mystery it is, that surrounds her. We shall go to her 
valley of the Sorrowful Mountain, and hear what it 
has to tell us. I shall learn to paint ‘ the tear and the 
smile’ of her strange land. I shall see for myself 
those tragic faces of the Celt, and find out whence 
comes Mara’s strange beauty. If it is a type, that 
would be worth much to the world of art. If it is 
exclusively her own that again is something of a 
wonder.” 

Those tragic eyes of the older man turned suddenly 
to Mara’s face. Except that she had grown into a tall 
slip of girlhood, and had coiled that golden flame of 
hair around her classic head there was little change to 
mark the transition from childhood. Her face held 
still that ivory pallor, her eyes were still the “deep 
pools of shadow” Christopher had named them; 
her voice still retained its note of mournful music. 

“Do you wish to go back, Mara?” asked Dax 
suddenly. 

“Indeed I would like it. I have never forgotten.” 

“Strange, how some memories haunt us to our life’s 


The Lone Isle 


239 


end— and faces too. Well, Christopher, if you have 
got one of your ‘wander fits’ upon you there’s no 
talking you out of it. Only you have sprung the sur- 
prise very suddenly. That study of The Little 
Mermaid isn’t finished. You’ll have Sennacherib 
down upon you.” 

“Sennacherib is a beast!” said Christopher. “He 
made a deuced good thing out of the Rubbish Heap , 
and then sold the photogravure rights to a Hair- 
Restoring Company. It was an abominable fraud. 
I’ll never get over it!” 

“The British public liked the idea — evidently,” 
said Dax, with a grim smile. “I told you to have a 
properly worded contract, but you were so excited 
over a purchaser ” 

“ I was excited over the money. A hundred pounds 
paid on the nail, and for a first picture. You yourself 
told me, mon maitre, that your first only fetched ten.” 

“True, but my model was not adaptable as a trade 
mark.” 

“Don’t what you call ‘rub it in.’ I confess I was 
wrong, and I am grinding my teeth at the present 
moment over the transaction. Still my price has gone 
up and I rejoice in independence at last. The dear 
good ladies, over there, no longer resent my erratic 
habits; nor fuss over the derangements of the studio. 
As for Jeanne, she has been the sweetest of models; of 
a patience to make the good Job blush at a spurious 
fame. I painted her in The Shades of Autumn . It 
is a wonder, cher maitre; genre , exquisite in detail of 
fabric; the old filmy lace, the soft tender hues of the 
satin! I shall send it to the Academy again. ” 

“It is too opposed to your Fee of the Lone Moun- 
tain. They won’t hang it as a second-year subject. ” 


240 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Well, if not, I shall not break my heart. The 
Fee was on the line, and sold ; do not ever forget 
that. I always wonder who bought it?” 

“No great judge of art. The critics told you your 
technique was faulty.” 

“Yes. I had much to learn, but thanks to your 
overwhelming goodness I have learnt it.” 

“One has never learnt it — sufficiently, Christopher. 
Don’t get self-satisfied whatever you do.” 

“ Must one never allow one has done a good piece of 
work?” demanded the youth pettishly. “You are 
very hard on enthusiasm, cher maitre. ” 

“I am only hard on the danger of ‘a gude conceit 
o’ oursels,’ as the Scots divine said in his petition. 
Where are you going, Mara?” he added, as the girl 
rose from the table. 

“To dust the room, and put fresh flowers there. 
It is the day, you know. ” 

“It seems always the ‘day’ when you come here. 
You do half Chawley’s work for him. ” 

“He is getting old, ” she said. “Besides I love that 
room. I would like to think no other hands but mine 
ever tended it. ” 

“I think no others do, unless my own. But don’t 
waste all this lovely morning over broom and duster, 
child. I wanted you to pose for half an hour, and let 
Christopher get that Mermaid finished. Even if 
dealers wait, publishers won’t; and the book is 
wanted for a series.” 

“Is the Mermaid the last?” asked Mara, as she 
put the breakfast things together on the tray. 

“ Oh no, but he might do the other two when he is 
in — Ireland. ” 

“ I probably shall,” said Christopher gaily. “ Catch 


The Lone Isle 


241 


some elf of the bogs, or some gnome of the mountains. 
It’s a land of ‘fairie’ and ‘mysterie,’ is it not, Mara? 
You, at all events, seemed a compound of both when 
first I made your acquaintance.” 

“It seems far away now,” said the girl, “and I 
don’t rightly remember all that it meant to me. It’s 
only when I look at the little picture within there 
that I seem back to where I was.” 

“Ah — the little picture!” exclaimed Christopher. 
“There is the clue I need. Cher maitre, say that you 
will change your mind and come with us. Be our 
guide and teacher as ever. Take us your own pil- 
grimage, and show to me where that picture was 
painted. ” 

The face of the old artist grew suddenly grey and 
hard. 

“You ask the impossible,” he said brusquely. “I 
wish never to set foot in that land again. To me it is 
horrible — cruel — a place of crime and bloodshed! A 
torturing horror!” 

His eyes blazed. He put up his hands and covered 
them, as if to shut out some painful sight. Mara 
paused midway between the door and verandah. 
Christopher stood as if amazed at the extraordinary 
outburst of one usually so mild and self-controlled. 

“I regret; I pray your pardon, cher maitre. I had 
no intention to awaken painful memories. We will 
speak of it no more. ” 

With an effort the excited man recovered his com- 
posure. But he did not speak. He walked swiftly 
down the verandah to where the easel stood, and 
remained there staring at the canvas of the Mermaid. 

Christopher lit a cigarette, and watched him. Mara 
went within, and as if by instinct turned to look at the 

16 


242 The Rubbish Heap 

corner where the little painting hung beneath the 
broken harp. 

It was not there. 

Mara was called upon for the pose of The Little 
Mermaid , long before she had finished her business of 
broom and duster. She went somewhat unwillingly, 
for the cleaning and polishing and arranging of all 
those wonderful things was a task of which she never 
wearied. It was also a task which Chawley had will- 
ingly relegated to her more delicate hands. But when 
Christopher summoned her to the model stand she 
went at once, for she knew the Fairy Tale series 
were arranged for a certain date, and that the care- 
less young artist was running it very closely. It was 
the martyrized maiden for whom she posed, when the 
fish’s tail had been sacrificed, and every step was 
torture. Possibly the fact that the story had been a 
special favourite of her own, and that she understood 
it perfectly, helped her to present the martyrdom 
as effectively as the loveliness. Christopher had 
arranged her somewhat fantastic draperies, and the 
“fleece,” as he called it, was unbound and let fall to 
her knees. 

The picture promised well, and Marmaduke Dax 
was almost satisfied. On this morning the light was 
perfect, and Christopher worked with enthusiasm. 
The old artist smoked and watched, and sometimes 
ordered a rest for the model. Christopher was still apt 
to be forgetful of strained muscles and arduous poses. 

Thus the morning passed. 

“That’s enough for today,” said Dax, at last. 
“ I hear the sound of plates and dishes. I expect you 
young folk are hungry by this time.” 


The Lone Isle 


243 


Christopher threw down his palette and brush and 
gave a sigh of relief. Mara rose and drifted away 
through the window of the bedroom to change into 
normal garb. 

She’s a wonderful model, isn’t she ? It’s only when 
I have had to employ others that I’ve learnt to appre- 
ciate her patience.” 

“You might say — intelligence.” 

“Yes, I should have added that. At all events 
you appreciate her, cher maitre.” 

“I hope you do also? She laid the foundations of 
your fortune. It’s not given to many artists to sell 
their first crude efforts. ” 

“But the Rubbish Heap was an inspiration. You 
said so yourself that day you came in and saw 
my picture.” 

“It was certainly original. I think you have a 
talent for figure painting. Why are you so anxious 
to change to landscape?” 

“Why?” The youth laughed gaily. “Dear 
master, why does the comedian long to play Hamlet, 
or the novelist long to write a poem, or the farceur 
to become a philosopher? Just because human nature 
is a perpetual contradiction, and the things other 
people do, and we cannot, seem to us the only things 
worth doing. ” 

“Some of your French cynicism, Christopher.” 

“But no, it is pure observation.” 

“Then your desire to try a new form of art is only 
envy of others who have achieved it already?” 

Christopher’s lips twisted into their whimsical smile. 
“Perhaps — and yet perhaps not. It may be I am a 
little tired — of one figure, and one face, one type. ” 

“Tired of Mara? You will never find a face more 


2 44 The Rubbish Heap 

beautiful, though the figure is still somewhat angular 
and undeveloped; but then that wonderful hair 
covers that. ” 

“But don’t you see it is that which has been spoilt 
for me by brutal advertisement. If I take up a paper, 
or look at a hoarding on the walls of London, it is to 
see Mrs. Somebody’s marvellous Hair Restorer, and 
Mara’s face and hair as a proof of efficacy. Mara her- 
self never having touched the damned stuff in her life ! 
I wish I could expose the fraud!” 

1 ‘ It would be an expensive business, my boy. They 
don’t absolutely say that the hair of the pictured lady 
is the result of the Restorer. The public merely read 
that interpretation into a plausible suggestion!” 

“The public are fools then!” 

“They are — mostly. We are taking a leaf out 
of our go-ahead American cousins’ book in the way of 
advertisement. They advocate it for everything, and 
anybody. Possibly before long the Queen’s brand of 
breakfast bacon, or the Prime Minister’s special 
coffee, or the ‘Gladstone favourite pill ’ will be 
exploited by the press. Of course it is to blame for 
allowing such vulgarity, but money is more to the 
commercial brain than any fine feelings. ” 

Christopher shrugged impatient shoulders. “I 
don’t wonder you got disgusted with life!” he said. 
“I think often I should like to follow your example, 
and flee the world. ” 

“You? At three and twenty! My dear boy, 
you haven’t begun to live yet, let alone give up life’s 
chances. ” 

“ I suppose you mean I haven’t had any love affair? 
Lost my head over some woman, or plunged into some 
mad adventure? ” 


The Lone Isle 


245 


“It is a little surprising — considering the Gallic 
strain, and your romantic temperament?” 

“Must every man have that ‘love episode,’ cher 
maitre? Isn’t it possible to escape as you did?” 
“You think I escaped?” 

“Well, I have never heard a hint of any woman’s 
influence in all you have told me of your life. Cer- 
tainly it is not visible in your paintings. ” 

Marmaduke Dax laughed somewhat bitterly. “I 
am flattered by your interest, Christopher. But I 
think curiosity has something to do with it. ” 
Christopher seemed to reflect on that remark. 

“I wonder — if it has? I find myself of late study- 
ing the most unlikely types I come across, to see if per- 
chance they too have suffered, or escaped this 
devastating passion. ” 

“Do they give you their confidences?” 

“No. I don’t ask it; a hint suffices.” The little 
smile curved his lips once more. “They betrayed 
themselves, as — as you did just now. Ah — do not 
be angry. I shall avoid the subject in future. But 
only because there is a subject to avoid. Tell me I am 
impertinent, I deserve it, but I have heard some queer 
stories, received some odd confidences, although you 
call my twenty-three years — youth. I often think I 
was born old. I seem to know so much, to have seen 
so much. Then, you must allow I have had odd ex- 
periences. I have confided in you as to no one else. ” 
“You are a queer boy. I often wish I could under- 
stand you. It seems to me that you have no great 
emotional power, but a great deal of what is called 
— attraction. That, I may say, is rather bad for 
other people, and not specially good for yourself.” 
‘‘You have always told me my faults, and ignored 


246 


The Rubbish Heap 

my virtues, ” laughed Christopher. “But I bear you 
no ill-will. Indeed I feel inclined to promise you my 
confidence — if — mind I do not say when — I fall 
a victim in my turn to that enemy of peace — V amour. 
I hope it may long. I hope I shall not suffer. I hope 
. . . oh, there’s Mara, master mine! Has it occurred 
to you that my maid of the Rubbish Heap is growing 
wondrous fair?” 

“She was a lovely child. She will be a beautiful 
woman,” muttered the old artist, as he watched 
the slight girlish figure coming towards them. “But 
like yourself, Christopher, I often think she lacks — 
something. The essential quality that makes the 
humanity of man, or woman, half divine. ” 

“You mean a soul ? Perhaps it is not born in either 
of us — yet. ” 


SCENE XVIII 

The Drawing-room in Agglestone House. Evening of 
the Same Day 

Dinner is over. Coffee cups stand on the table. 
Christopher is seated on the piano stool talking 
eagerly to his aunts. Time has made no alteration in 
their appearances. If anything Miss Jane looks 
younger, because she is suitably dressed, and her hair 
is more becomingly arranged. She still adores her 
strange nephew, who stands out as the moving spirit 
of the house, and of her life. 

No Action in this Scene; it Is One of Conversation 

“You see — ” Christopher was saying — “how the 
affaire began? An Irish play, a volume of Irish poems 
and stories. Then the idea fires my brain to produce 
in visible form some of this beauty, these traditions. 
It seems quaint that she is so neglected, this beautiful 
land, by her sister isle. Of late I ask people — ‘Do 
you know Ireland; have you ever been there?’ 
And, you may believe me, my dear aunts, the answer is 
invariably in the negative. She went out of favour 
or out of fashion (the same thing), with the Fenian 
risings, and the Phoenix Park murders. Yet all her 
247 


248 


The Rubbish Heap 

people are not rebels, or murderers. Their history is 
wonderful. It is full of romance, enthusiasms, the 
passion for liberty. And the literature, which we have 
so neglected, it is beautiful. A thing of wild sadness; 
quaint humours. Her folk-lore and her proverbs, 
they too are worth investigation, but how few people 
know anything of them. You, of this cold puritanical 
England, you will travel abroad, spend your money 
in foreign countries to be robbed by rapacious hotel- 
keepers, and poisoned by foreign food, and yet not 
trouble to find, close to your elbow, as it were, a 
country as beautiful, a people as interesting as France 
or Italy could show you!” 

“When you have quite finished, Christopher — ” 
said Miss Augusta primly. 

He laughed. “Ah — you rebuke me as always that 
my tongue runs away with any sense of time. What 
is it then you would say, dear aunt Augustine?” 

“Only — that by your own confession you know 
nothing of this country either. Yet you have spent 
a considerable portion of your own time in foreign 
travel, when you might have stepped across the 
Channel, so to say, and visited this much neglected 
land!” 

“A true bill! I plead guilty, but for excuse I have 
that my journeys were in pursuit of my art. I had 
to go to Paris for instruction; to Italy for romance; 
to Munich for industry! But now, I feel more 
assured of myself. I say to Monsieur Dax that I am 
tired of figure painting. I want Nature, pure, simple, 
unabashed. Of course I find her at hand also. But 
then my erratic fancy has evolved a desire for the 
visionary, the characteristic. Here in England there 
is a monotony of racial physiognomy, as of racial 


249 


In Agglestone House 

prejudices. I want a new type. I think I may find 
it in that country of contradictions and enthusiasms. 
In any case I go there — I start next week. I and 
Mara. ” 

“Mara!” exclaimed Miss Jane. “You are surely 
not taking Mara with you?” 

“It would be highly improper,” said Miss Augusta 
austerely. 

The boy — he still looked no more, laughed gaily. 
“Now — for it. Trot out the good old prejudices and 
proprieties. Why should Mara not come with me? 
I promised her long ago that if I ever went to Ireland 
I would take her. She is overjoyed at the idea. ” 

“I cannot imagine Mara being overjoyed at any- 
thing, ” said Miss Augusta sourly. 

“'Well, that may not be the exact expression, but 
she is glad to come. She has held that longing in her 
heart for five years. She never reminded me, never 
spoke of it, but it was there. At first hint, first word 
of my intentions her whole mind was afire with excite- 
ment. She recalled everything; our first meeting, her 
own story, my promises. So you see, dear aunts, it 
must be ‘we’ not I, who go forth on this adventure.” 

“You seem to forget, Christopher, that Mara is no 
longer a child. ” 

“What then is she? ” 

“ She is grown up. She is sixteen; more perhaps, ” 
said Miss Jane. 

“Her age signifies nothing to me. We have been 
always good friends; bon camarades. Can’t friends 
go a- journeying together, even if one is sixteen, and 
the other — well — say twenty-four?” 

Miss Jane looked at her sister for advice on such a 
momentous question. Miss Augusta was perplexed. 


250 


The Rubbish Heap 

If Christopher saw still only his child-model in this 
girl, it seemed unwise to put other ideas into his head. 
Besides Mara was not under their guardianship. She 
had returned to the old curio shop five years ago, and 
save for occasional visits to Miss Jane the Great House 
knew her no more. Not even the studio, for Christo- 
pher did most of his painting on the island, and used 
his once adored atelier chiefly as a “finishing shop.” 
He had discovered that the light was deficient, and that 
any work done there lacked “atmosphere.” There 
was no other room available without making drastic 
changes, so he had transferred his easel to more suitable 
conditions. However Miss Jane had never forgotten 
her protegee or neglected her, and as the child grew up 
into girlhood she could not but recognize her beauty, 
and wonder at it. 

But any hint at disturbing existing arrangements 
met with violent opposition from Katty Quirke. She 
would not be parted from the “child,” as she still 
called her. Michael had given her to her of set pur- 
pose, with an evident presentiment that his own end 
was at hand. Here she must remain, though with all 
liberty of action. Her book-reading, her education, 
her uses as a model, these were Mara’s own concern. 
All Katty seemed anxious for was her nightly pre- 
sence under her roof, her company on Sundays, an 
occasional “minding of the shop,” when she would 
be at a sale. 

And the five years had slipped quickly by. So 
quickly that the old curio-dealer scarcely noted that 
the child was fast growing out of childhood, any more 
than she noted a growing absorption of mind, a 
greater reserve of feeling. She was a good listener. 
That served Katty as the test of companionship. 


In Agglestone House 251 

That Mara rarely heard, or rarely answered her long 
rambling confidences mattered nothing, so long as 
Mara was there to receive them. 

“What does Mrs. Quirke say about it?” asked Miss 
Augusta at length. 

“The good Catherine? She says always what 
Mara says.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Jane quickly. “Why does 
she not go also ? Ireland is her native country, and it 
must be many years since she visited it!” 

“That — would be quite satisfactory,” said Miss 
Augusta. 

Christopher’s face looked somewhat blank. 

“Thank you — no. It does not commend itself to 
me, that idea. Neither would it be suitable for my 
purpose. One companion — yes. That is all very 
well; but two, and both women — I think not.” He 
twirled round on the music stool, and began to play 
softly an air of Schumann’s. 

The two sisters looked at each other, and seemed 
questioning all the proprieties of their own safely 
guarded youth. 

“In our day, of course, such a thing could not 
possibly be permitted,” said Miss Augusta, under 
cover of the music. 

“In our day — no. But there were no Christophers 
in our days, dear Augusta. He is quite unlike the — 
the young men we used to meet.” 

“They were at least well bred, and well brought up, 
Jane. The young people of the present day seem to be 
a law unto themselves. They neither respect their 
elders’ opinions, nor regard their wishes. Even 
distinctions of rank are less marked, and in our social 
circle the difference is so appalling that I regard 


252 The Rubbish Heap 

my visiting days with more apprehension than 
pleasure.” 

“But one must expect changes, Augusta. The 
world does not stand still. ” 

“You, Jane, are more easily influenced than myself. 
You always were. And Christopher has succeeded in 
arousing a most regrettable vanity.” 

“Vanity! oh no, Augusta!” 

“You may shut your eyes to your own follies, Jane, 
but I cannot avoid seeing them. Your mode of dress 
becomes more and more — unsuitable.” 

4 ‘ What was that ? ” The stool whirled round again. 
“What is unsuitable, chere Augustine?” 

“Jane’s dress tonight. And that new tailor-made 
costume which arrived today.” 

“A perfectly neat and suitable coat and skirt, 
designed by myself, carried out by the little foreign 
tailor at Stourborough ! How can you call that unsuit- 
able? It makes her look neat, trim, taller too. Just 
what an Englishwoman should look in the street. I 
would design one for you also, my dear aunt, if you 
permit?” 

“Thank you — no. I prefer my own style, and my 
own ideas of what is suitable. ” 

Christopher laughed, and trilled out a little gay 
French song he had picked up in Paris. Miss 
Augusta rose, and rang the bell for Tomlinson. 

“My bedroom candle,” she said, as the staid old 
servitor appeared. 

“Yes, Miss Augusta, but it has only just struck 
nine. ” 

“I am perfectly aware of the time, Tomlinson, but 
I wish to retire to my own room.” 

“Is it my fault?” exclaimed Christopher, springing 


253 


In Agglestone House 

up from the long-suffering stool. “I ask your pardon, 
I should not have sung that. But I did not think 
you would understand. ” 

“My acquaintance with the French language is not 
so limited as you imagine, Christopher, and ‘ pruderie * 
is a word that holds the same meaning in both lan- 
guages. ” 

“Unfortunately that is so. I regret it — I mean that 
you should have taken it personally. It was not meant, 
I assure you. ” 

He held open the door, and wished her good-night as 
usual. The formal kiss on his forehead seemed 
a trifle more formal than usual. The eyes of 
Tomlinson, as he lit the candle for his mistress, 
might have been a trifle less solemn than usual. 
Each of the signs was quite intelligible to Christopher. 
He returned to the drawing-room, threw his arms 
round Miss Jane, and kissed her on either cheek. 

“There! that’s to relieve my feelings. I seem to be 
always offending the good Augustine. Now, Jeanne, 
let’s have it out. We go back to where we began. 
Why should Mara and I not go on this little tour 
together?” 

Miss Jane flushed, stammered, longed for the support 
of her elder sister, and finally plunged into a medley of 
explanation. 

“You see, dear Christopher, a young man and a 
young girl ought not to go about the world, I mean the 
country, unchaperoned. It is not — not convenable , to 
use your own word. People will talk. And then 
awkward questions would be asked at — well — at 
hotels, or inns, or wherever you stayed. I really am 
not sure whether there are any hotels in Ireland. A 
young girl, you know, has to be so careful, especially 


254 


The Rubbish Heap 

one in Mara’s position .... I don’t know that I 
quite approve of her still being your model. She is no 
longer a child; the — the whole situation is complicated 
by that fact. Can’t you see it for yourself? ” 

“I did not — see it.” His face grew grave. He 
began to pace the room with slow thoughtful steps. 
/‘I am sorry you have lifted the veil, dear Jeanne. I 
assure you I should never have dreamt of doing it. I 
did ask Monsieur Dax to come with us, but he re- 
fused. ” 

“Ah, that would have made all the difference. Why 
did he refuse?” 

“Because of something that once happened to him 
in that country. Something very dreadful. He will 
never say what. ” 

“Perhaps if I ” 

“ You? Excellent! You shall come too, of course! 
Why did I not think of it before ? It will do you all the 
good in the world, mentally and physically. It ” 

“My dear boy, don’t be so impulsive. I was going 
to say perhaps if I asked Mr. Dax, he might change 
his mind?” 

“No, I don’t believe it. There is something about 
Ireland, and his one visit there, which has altered all 
his life. But you, my dear, you would be just the 
most suitable of chaperons. I don’t want to disappoint 
Mara, and I am sure it would be a cruel disappoint- 
ment, if I said I would not take her. Isn’t it queer, 
dear Jeanne, that it takes a very good person to dis- 
cover what is wrong in a very innocent situation! 
Yours and the good Augustine’s view of the matter is 
astonishing to me, because my mind saw neither evil, 
nor suggestion in the business. But you’ve spoilt it 
now. It will never look the same again. There’s 


In Agglestone House 


255 


only one reparation for you to make. Come with us 
yourself, and for God’s sake don’t let that innocent 
soul suspect why!" 

Miss Jane flushed and paled, and her delicate hands 
trembled with emotion. He was so impetuous, this 
Christopher, such a whirlwind, and she had only 
meant a little hint of caution, of prudence. Into what 
a maelstrom had it plunged her. 

The peace of quiet years was threatened. Travel, 
bustle, noise, confusion; strange faces, strange beds, all 
things she most disliked rose up in formidable array. 
And, after all, where was the harm? Not in Christo- 
pher’s chivalry; not in Mara’s innocence; not in any 
sense of the situation except what she and Augusta 
had read into it by reason of early Victorian principles. 

“ Well,” said the relentless young voice, “have you 
decided?” 

“What will Augusta say? Oh, dear Christopher, I 
wish — I wish you had been going abroad, as usual.” 

“But I’m not. I’m going to Ireland, and you’re 
coming with me. Don’t look so scared. I’ll take care 
of you.” 

“ Oh, that awful, awful Channel ! Christopher, they 
say it’s a thousand times worse than the English one !” 

“It probably is. You deserve to be punished for 
your sins. ” 

“My sins? But what have I done, or said, that 
wasn’t perfectly natural — under the circumstances?” 

“You have put ideas into my wicked French head. 
You have supposed That a young girl’s innocence is 
not safe in my hands. You have let in the harsh day- 
light of the world’s interpretation on a perfectly harm- 
less project. See you what it is to be good, and pious, 
and early Victorian! I — being none of these, had 


256 


The Rubbish Heap 

never a thought of harm. Mara is still to me a child; 
a sister. You have suggested another sort of ” 

“ Christopher !” 

“Sort of relationship,” he went on relentlessly. 
“Artist and model have had their little romance before 
now, my good virtuous little Jeanne! See you then 
the fire kindled by a careless thrown-down match! 
The Mephistopheles of temptation peering from out 
the respectable tailor-made costume I have so happily 
designed ! Well, I can’t find any more similes for the 
moment, so go you to your virtuous couch, and thank 
God on your knees for a moral clean-souled nephew ! I 
think your good Shakespeare says something like that. 
N ’ importe! the storm is over. I think, dear Jeanne, 
you look something of a wreck. ” 

“Christopher! You are the most cruel, incompre- 
hensible boy I’ve ever come across!” 

“You have known so few, dear Jeanne. It was not 
permitted by the good papa, and the excellent mamma 
who drove my own poor father into the wilderness to 
perish ” 

“ Oh, my dear, my dear, don’t say that /” 

“ It is true, ” said the boy sternly. “A life’s tragedy 
lies behind that word ‘Philip,’ which is never men- 
tioned in this house. ” 

And suddenly a mist rose before his eyes. He saw 
some yellow scraps of paper, the faint small writing, 
the picture of a lonely boy tramping the world’s high- 
way, because no one had ever troubled to understand, 
or to comfort him. He seemed to thrill again with the 
passion and the pain of that tragic story which for 
five long years had lain buried in his heart. 

He turned from the startled figure by his side, and 
threw himself on the couch, and burst into a sudden 


In Agglestone House 257 

bitter weeping. He too was lonely, he too needed 
love, and sympathy, and comprehension. He recog- 
nized he would never find them in this narrow circle of 
circumscribed ideas. And for the first time the know- 
ledge hurt him. 

Miss Jane, frightened, and unable to comprehend 
this storm of emotion, crept quietly from the 
room. 

The fit exhausted itself at last. The boy lifted his 
head, dashed the tears from his eyes, and looked up in- 
to the astonished face of — Tomlinson. 

“Beg pardon, sir, but I thought — you’re not ill I 
hope, sir?” 

Christopher shook his head, and rose slowly from 
the couch. 

“A little upset, so to say, sir? You work too hard, 
and the ladies are a bit worritin’ at times. Can I 
bring you anything? Whiskey and soda is not a bad 
pick-me-up, sir, if I may suggest it?” 

Christopher gave a short laugh. “Thanks, Tomlin- 
son, you’re always a brick. Yes, bring me the pick- 
me-up, and now the old ladies have retired, I’ll smoke 
a cigarette to soothe my nerves.” 

When the old butler returned the boy seemed quite 
his normal self. He was sitting by the wood-fire, 
which was still lit every evening, and gazing thought- 
fully into its glowing heart. 

“Shall I mix, sir, or will you?” 

“You do it, Tomlinson, you’re a better judge of 
quantities than I am. ” 

“Well, sir, I must say you’re extraordinary temper- 
ate for a young man. I’ve known some that couldn’t 
do without their bottle of claret dinner-time, and port 


2 5 8 


The Rubbish Heap 

to finish, and a good two or three brandies or whiskies 
as a wind-up at night, sir.” 

He brought the tumbler with its foaming contents 
to the young man, and handed it politely. Christopher 
drank thirstily, and set the half-empty glass on the 
mantelpiece. 

“How long have you lived here, Tomlinson?” he 
asked suddenly. 

“Nigh on twenty years, sir. I mind because Miss 
Jane was quite a pretty young lady then — of a type — 
sir. We all thought she’d make a good match, but 
somehow she didn’t. ” 

“And in those twenty years have you ever heard 
them speak of their brother — my father, Tomlinson?” 

“ 1 can’t say I have, sir. But you see they’re ladies 
as wouldn’t talk confidential to servants. The place 
was quiet and comfortable, and suited me, but there 
was a great deal of monoterny, sir, until the day your 
letter came, and woke us all up a bit. ” 

“Ah — tell me about that!” 

“It was a bit of an upset, sir, I could see; but Miss 
Augusta wasn’t the sort to give herself away. I heard 
just a word or two, it was something about ‘the boy,’ 
and ‘Philip’s son,’ sir.” 

“ He was my father, their only brother; the only son 
of the house and no one seemed to care what had 
become of him. ” 

“The old gentleman, Mr. Agglestone, sir, was a 
very severe old gentleman. He was alive when I came 
into the family, but he died before the end of the 
year. ” 

“ Died in the odour of sanctity, no doubt, and never 
even mentioned the poor little lad who had run away 
from home and friends, and set out to fight the battle 


In Agglestone House 259 

of life at an age when most boys are sheltered and 
protected.” 

“ Is that the case, sir? I never heard.” 

Christopher nodded, and stretched up his hand for 
the glass and finished its contents. 

“ I — also, never heard until the story was brought to 
me by his own words. . . . Ah ! that’s done me good ! 
Tomlinson, I wish you’d sit down, and forget for a 
moment that you’re a butler. I want your advice.” 

Somewhat diffidently Tomlinson drew a chair for- 
ward, and seated himself. 

“You’ll excuse my saying, sir, that if Miss Augusta 
was to come in and see me ” 

“Oh, she won’t. She’s gone to bed. Look here 
now, as man to man, what would you say about — a 
a case like this ? A boy and a girl, who are no relation, 
but have been thrown together by circumstances — 
what the devil are you grinning like that for! — ”he 
broke off angrily. 

“Beg pardon, sir. I — I was only smiling at my own 
thoughts, boy and girl you said, sir?” 

“Yes. But it’s no laughing matter.” 

“It shan’t occur again, sir.” 

“Very well, I’ll go on. They’re just like brother 
and sister, only their relative positions in life are not 
quite the same. Well, would there be any harm in 
their going for a holiday, say — together?” 

“It would depend, sir, on their ages for one thing, 
and on the sort of holiday for another. ” 

“Tomlinson, I think you are an old rascal. This is 
a perfectly harmless holiday, and she is a mere child. 
It would never enter any one’s head to imagine — well, 
what I’ve been told might be imagined. ” 

“Then it did enter someone’s head, sir ? ” 


26 o 


The Rubbish Heap 

“You are deuced sharp, Tomlinson. Yes, it did. 
Not mine — I mean his, the boy’s.” 

“Meaning he’s of an age to know something of the 
— apple of Eden, sir?” 

“Yes, of course. That’s the safeguard, I should 
imagine. The sins of ignorance are more excusable 
than those of consciousness.” 

“Sounds a bit — Balzackey, sir. I’ve read the 
Comedy Human, translated of course.” 

“Good old Tomlinson! That’s where you get your 
worldly wisdom. But we stray from the point. 
Would there be any harm?” 

“None in the world, sir, if ’twas you and Mara that 
were thinking of that holiday.” 

“How did you guess?” 

“Just came as a conclusion, sir. And you may 
remember you talked at dinner of going to Ireland.” 

“So I did. I suppose one forgets servants aren’t 
dumb waiters! So you see no harm in my taking 
Mara with me?” 

“No harm, sir. But a good deal of — inconvenience. 
Young females wanting separate accommodation and 
not being good travellers, — unless used to it.” 

“Oh — I don’t fear that. She wouldn’t be any 
trouble. ” 

“But, if I may be excused for asking, sir, why bother 
yourself with the young person, if you’re going on one 
of your sketching tours as usual?” 

“Why? Well, in the first place, it’s a promise; 
in the next, it is her native land, and she has thought 
of going back to it for five long patient years. ” 

“Does she mean to stay there altogether, sir?” 

“That — I can’t say. It would depend I suppose 
on what happened. ” 


In Agglestone House 261 

“Are you expecting anything to happen, sir?’' 

‘ ‘ I am — and I am not. I have the strangest wish to 
go, and yet the greatest dread of going. The plan I 
had in my mind has gone all awry. Well — ” he 
threw away his half-finished cigarette, “I must 
leave it to chance. I have suggested to my aunt 
Jeanne that she goes with us. It will be stupid; it 
will interfere with many things. For instance she 
won’t care to tramp the country-side as we have 
planned to do, or put up with the rough accommo- 
dation of a farm-house, or an Irish village inn. How- 
ever, if it is a matter of principle, she’ll do it. ” 

“But, excuse me, sir, couldn’t you just take Mara to 
the place she wants — I believe it’s a convent, sir — and 
leave her there and then go off on your own, so to say ? ’ ’ 
“Of course I could, and would, but these virtuous 
ladies here seem to think it wouldn’t be proper to take 
her at all. Also, to tell you the truth, I wanted the 
child’scompanyon my tramps. It has always seemed 
to me that she could translate the meaning of her land 
for my brush and pencil; not as a model — it’s — it’s 
hard to explain to any one not an artist himself. But 
there are personalities — temperaments, which form a 
medium of expression, and in some queer indefinable 
way Mara has always helped me to express what I 
want. In a new land, among new scenes, I foresee 
wonderful subjects; effects never yet produced. It 
has been said that acting is more real than life. In 
like manner painting is more real than Nature. I 
suppose this is all Greek to you, Tomlinson, but that’s 
how I feel and how Mara makes me feel. It’s as if 
she’d been sent to supply a want in myself, and I’ve 
never done anything really good without her. ” 
Tomlinson looked a little anxious. 


262 


The Rubbish Heap 

“In the matter of — sentiment, as one may say, sir, 
the young person ” 

“ Nom de Dieu! Don’t call her that, as if she was a 
draper’s assistant!’’ 

“Well, lady, if you prefer it, sir?” 

“She is as much a lady as purity and refinement can 
make her. And those are qualities she owns as birth- 
right.” 

“Yes, sir. She has a way of looking, and moving 
that is very different from — shall we say Cherry 
Menlove, sir?” 

Christopher laughed suddenly. “Ah — the buxom 
Cherry ! What then has come to her ? Has she left ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir. Taken a place somewhere in the neigh- 
bourhood. ” 

“ I thought I hadn’t seen her lately. She used to be 
frightfully jealous of Mara. I wonder if she’s got over 
it?” 

“She was a young — person as I couldn’t hold with, 
sir. I’m glad she’s left the kitchen, though her cookin’ 
was excellent; picked up from Mrs. Prowser, of course. 
But a silly giggling wench all the same, and full of her- 
self because you once painted a picture of her, sir.” 

Christopher rose and stretched himself, and glanced 
at the clock. 

“Well, Tomlinson, we don’t seem to have reached 
any definite conclusion, do we?” 

Tomlinson rose also. “Except this, sir. That if 
you can trust yourself you’ll be doing no harm to any 
one by taking your own way, as usual, sir.” 

“But my aunts don’t see it in that light, and it 
would be an awful thing if — if unkind things were 
one day said of Mara. The poor child hasn’t much to 
thank life for as it is. But as for trusting myself — ” 


In Agglestone House 263 

He shook back that loose lock of hair which had a 
trick of falling over his brow — “Of course I can do 
that, Tomlinson. What the Styx was to Achilles so is 
Art to the artist. It holds him aloof, invincible; 
fenced from mere banal passions such as destroy men’s 
souls. ” 

“I’m glad to hear it, sir,” said Tomlinson respect- 
fully. “Though, of course, there’s been tales of minxes 
and models in the art world just as in the — well, the 
’arf world, sir. Not meaning anything disrespectful, 
nor forgetting that even the classical gentleman as 
you mentioned, was — vulcanized — is that the expres- 
sion, sir? — in his heel. ” 

Christopher’s laugh was the spontaneous offering of 
appreciation. 

“I see you’re as well up in classical mythology as in 
Balzac. You’re a wonder, Tomlinson! I should 
like to take you with me when I’m studying nature in 
a land that might astonish even you, Tomlinson.” 

“Nature — is rather astonishing, sir,” said Tom- 
linson. 


INTERLUDE 


The Call of Erin 

A somewhat disturbed breakfast hour was due to 
Miss Jane’s visible agitation at Christopher’s allusion 
to their conversation of the previous night. Miss 
Augusta stared at her sister in stony amazement. 

“You — Jane? You go to Ireland? What a very 
preposterous idea! ” 

“Do you really think so, Augusta?” faltered the 
meek Miss Jane. 

“Of course I think so. In the first place you have 
never gone anywhere without me. In the next, this is 
not the time of year for travelling. We have always 
selected the month of August for a holiday resort. 
And, last of all, I should not dream of consenting to 
your accompanying Christopher on such a wild-goose 
chase, as he has proposed. ” 

Christopher looked up from his plate of crisp bacon. 

My dear good aunt, those are all words of wisdom. 
I quite agree with you that Jane would not make a 
good traveller. Would never stand the variable 
weather of spring (I believe it always rains in Ireland), 
and furthermore the chase-of -the- wild-goose, as you 
humorously put it, would not be of the sport that 
English ladies of her years appreciate ! But again, you 
have both insinuated that there is a propriety to be 
observed; hence my suggestion. ” 

264 


The Call of Erin 


265 


“What does Mrs. Quirke say to this scheme?” 
demanded Miss Augusta. “After all she is Maria’s 
guardian.” 

“ Katty sees no harm in it,” announced the boy, 
“ nor Monsieur Dax, nor I, nor anybody so far, except 
you two dear Puritan souls. ” 

“ I never said there was harm, Christopher. I have 
sufficient trust in your honour and principles to be 
assured on that score. But this is a censorious world. 
We are well-known, and our affairs are of considerable 
importance in this town. I think the fact of our 
nephew starting off for a prolonged holiday excursion 
with a girl of humble antecedents, who has been his 
model, would be something of the nature of a scandal ! ” 
Christopher made an impatient gesture. “Pray do 
not argue the matter from the point of the scandalous ! 
There are people in every town of every country who 
only judge actions by the light of their own impure 
nature! I have told you what it is I intend to do. I 
have suggested that if a chaperon is needed, Jeanne is 
welcome to the office. But, once for all, my dear 
Augustine, I repeat that I go to Ireland next week and 
that Mara comes with me!” 

“Of course if you have made up your mind, Christo- 
pher, it is useless to say any more. Besides, this 
Irish child is no concern of mine. It is you and Jane 
who made such a fuss about her.” 

“Augusta, ” interposed Miss Jane meekly, “I — I am 
sorry to say that for once our opinions differ too widely 
for agreement. I have always taken an interest in 
Mara. I believe, in a way, she is attached to me. 
You have yourself said that people in the neighbour- 
hood would talk, if Christopher went off on this Irish 
tour with her as companion. Therefore, as he is deter- 


266 The Rubbish Heap 

mined to go, I shall accompany him. Nothing can be 
said then. ” 

Miss Augusta looked as astonished as if one of her 
own laid-down rules of life had suddenly found a voice, 
and personality. She stared at the pale resolute face, 
and quivering lips. She asked herself if this could be 
the crushed younger sister whom she had known all 
these years? Finally she took her stand upon the 
altar of Duty. 

“It is strange to hear such words from you, Jane. 
Our interests and aims in life have never been divided 
— yet. I confess I do not understand why you should 
now forsake our home and myself, for a mere 
whim.” 

“There is no question of ‘forsaking,’ dear Augusta. 
My absence will not be for very long, will it, Christo- 
pher?” 

“Anything from three to six months, ” answered the 
boy. 

Miss Jane’s countenance fell. But for that accu- 
sation of the previous night she would never have had 
the courage to oppose her stronger-minded sister. But 
she had been haunted through sleepless hours by 
those words : “It takes a very good person to discover 
what is wrong in a perfectly innocent situation.” 

She could not forget them, or the harm she and 
Augusta had done. As with other good intentions 
the results were less beneficial than the design. If 
only they had said nothing. If only, as on previous 
occasions, they had taken their nephew’s departure as 
a matter of course. However — regrets were useless 
now. She gathered up such courage as she possessed 
and openly declared herself on the side of the 
enemy. 


The Call of Erin 


267 


“ It is fortunate I ordered that tailor-made costume,” 
she said to herself, bowing her meek head to a storm of 
reproaches. 

Christopher interfered at last. “Do not distress 
yourself so, my good aunt. She will be perfectly safe 
with me. If I take it into my head to extend my tour, 
I will send her back. Travelling — parbleu! what is it 
in these comfortable days? A quick train, a fine 
steamer to meet it, another train to bear you home- 
wards — and there you are ! If it was Spain now, or 
even Italy — some parts — but this little jaunt across 
the water — why it does not deserve to be called 
‘travelling.’ ” 

“It is no use talking to you, Christopher. It never 
has been. All I can say is that I hope Jane will never 
regret her foolish decision.” 

She closed her lips firmly, as if determined to say no 
more, and breakfast was finished in almost total 
silence. 

In truth Christopher was very much annoyed at the 
turn of events, and his mind was busy over projects 
that meant the shelving of female responsibilities at 
the earliest opportunity. “There’s that convent,” 
flashed through his mind, “the one Mara always talks 
about. I might leave them there while I go off on my 
own. ’ ’ 

Looking up at last from his empty plate he said: 
“Now Jeanne, as little luggage as possible. In fact 
a travelling bag like my Gladstone ought to do. If 
you come to me with trunks and bonnet boxes I’ll 
leave them all in the parcel office at Euston! So 
remember. ” 

Miss Jane gave him a pale courageous smile. 
‘‘Very well, Christopher. I can travel in the tailor- 


268 


The Rubbish Heap 

made. I must take just one other dress to change, 
besides the 

“Exactly. And a neat useful hat. Something 
that will stand wind and weather. We start on 
Monday — mind!” 

* ‘ Monday ! ’ ’ exclaimed Miss Augusta. ‘ ‘ And this is 
Friday! That will only leave Saturday to pack, and 
arrange everything!” 

“And how long do you usually take?” asked this 
troublesome nephew. 

“ I have always given myself a full week to sort out, 
and decide upon, and pack for our month’s annual 
outing!” 

“ Ciel!” exclaimed Christopher, jumping up from 
the table, “and they talk of equality of sexes! Well, 
the first thing your sex would have to learn, dear 
aunt, is expedition. Why any man worth his salt, 
as you say, would pack his clothes and be ready to 
start on a journey at two hours’ notice — even less!” 

Miss Augusta’s look of contempt might have awed 
any one less impervious to criticism. 

“If you can call that packing, Christopher?” she 
said. 

Leaving Miss Jane all one flutter of excitement and 
indecision, Christopher seized his hat and walked 
down to the curiosity shop. 

The spring sunshine made the old town look grimier 
and shabbier than ever. Some of the shops were 
just opening, and the window-dressers seemed tak- 
ing more interest in the passers-by than in their own 
duties. But, here and there, a peep of blue from the 
sky, a touch of green from some overhanging branch 
gave relief to the general gloom. 


The Call of Erin 


269 


Christopher turned down a narrow lane and brought 
himself up sharply at the window of the curio shop. 
The shutters were not yet down, but knowing Katty’s 
erratic habits that did not surprise him. He turned 
the corner and came up to the door. That too was 
closed. He knocked loudly, but quite a moment or 
two passed before it opened and showed Mara’s pale 
face and startled eyes. 

“You — Mr. Christopher! Oh, I hoped ’twas the 
doctor ! I sent for him hours ago. Katty’s been taken 
awfully bad. I don’t know what to do with her. ” 

“Katty! What’s the matter? . . . But I suppose 
you don’t know.” 

“ No, I do not — Oh, here is the doctor ! Will you be 
coming in, Mr. Christopher, and wait?” 

“ Yes,” he said hurriedly, and conscious of a moment- 
ary resentment, as of some threatened derangement 
of plans. 

The doctor, an elderly, red-faced man, glanced 
inquiringly from one to the other. “I came as soon 
as I could. I was at another case. Where is the 
patient?” 

“It’s Mrs. Quirke, who keeps this shop,” said 
Christopher. “I suppose she’s upstairs, isn’t she, 
Mara?” 

“Yes. If you’d come this way, please, sir.” 

She closed the door, and the doctor followed her up 
the stairs to Katty’s bedroom. Christopher walked 
into the kitchen. 

It was tidy and clean, but no fire had been lit in the 
stove, nor had the blind been raised. He pulled it up 
and gazed out of the little window, hearing from time 
to time the sound of steps overhead, the scraping of a 
chair on the floor, the murmur of voices. 


270 


The Rubbish Heap 

“I wonder if she’s going to be very ill?” he thought. 
4 ‘What a nuisance! ... It would, of course, detain 
Mara here. Well, in a way, that gets me out of a 
dilemma. And the good Jeanne too. Perhaps she 
need not pack that bag after all. Quel bonheur /” 

It was characteristic of him that the sigh of relief 
stood for a personal thankfulness; that the queer old 
Irishwoman and Mara and her disappointment fell into 
secondary importance. He had all a man’s horror of a 
sick-room; of fuss and anxiety consequent upon ill- 
ness. His own boyish delicacy perhaps accounted for 
that. Health now seemed the greatest gift of life, 
for it meant the only possible enjoyment of life. 

His thoughts ran to and fro in this quarter of an 
hour of suspense. If Katty was to die what would 
happen to Mara? 

The question made him uncomfortable. Well, a 
home would have to be found for her. Perhaps 
Jeanne would have her again, or there was Marma- 
duke Dax. He was fond of her. Then, in the midst 
of his conjectures the doctor’s step sounded on the 
stairs, and he went out to meet him. 

“Well, sir?” he questioned rather anxiously. 

‘ ‘ A bad case of pneumonia, ’ ’ said the doctor. ‘ ‘ She 
ought to have a nurse; that child doesn’t understand 
illness. I’ll send one in. I know a good capable 
woman, not one of the professional ladies. It’s 
a case of poulticing, and watching. I don’t know 
what sort of constitution the woman has. How old 
is she?” 

“I can’t say. Sixty, I think.” 

“Do you take an interest in her? Is that pretty 
girl her granddaughter?” 

“She is no relation at all,” said Christopher. “Yes, 


The Call of Erin 


271 


I am interested. I’ve known the shop, and herself, 
and Mara for some years. ” 

“She’s a widow, isn’t she?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Well, I’ll send in the nurse at once, and she’ll have 
all my instructions. Good morning. ” 

Christopher went to the door. “ Might I go up and 
see Mrs. Quirke?” he asked, as he held it open. 

“Oh yes; she won’t know you, she’s not conscious; 
but you can go and look at her. ” 

The boy closed the door, and then went slowly up 
the narrow stairs. A door stood open. The room 
was clean and neatly arranged, and a fire burned in 
the little grate. On the bed, supported by many 
pillows, and breathing in heavy gasps, lay Katty. 

Her eyes were closed ; the leaden colour of face and 
lips frightened Christopher, and brought back some 
memory of his father’s death-bed. He stood there, 
and glanced curiously at Mara. 

“I’m afraid she’s very ill,” he said. 

“She is,” answered the girl. “And she’s going from 
us very soon. I know; for Michael was here. There 
he stood and looked at her, and she smiled, and he 
made a sign towards the door. ’Twas last night he 
came. I was sitting here, watching her. I saw him 
as plain as I see you; as plain as the first time when 
he came to tell us he was drowned. ” 

“What an uncanny creature you are, Mara!” 
exclaimed Christopher. “I — I do hope it is not to be 
as you say. There will be a nurse coming in to see 
to her; perhaps she will get better? ” 

Mara shook her head. “ I can’t help knowing what 
I know, or seeing what I see. It seems so strange that 
other folk can’t be doing the same.” 


272 The Rubbish Heap 

“I am awfully sorry,” said the boy. “It’s so 
sudden, is it not? You were at the island yesterday; 
you never said she was ill?” 

“She had queer secret ways with her, and she 
never told me. I knew the bad cough she had, 
but that was always her complaint in the spring of 
the year. And then sudden-like last night I heard 
her choking, and I came in and gave her the stuff 
she always took, and lit the fire, and as soon as I 
could get the neighbour’s boy awake, I sent him for 
the doctor. ” 

“ But the doctor — he did not say there was no hope, 
Mara?” 

‘ ‘ He — didn’t know. She’s been a good friend to me, 
Mr. Christopher. It’s sorry I am we’re parting now. 
Perhaps not for long though — and life’s full of partings. 
One has to get used to them.” 

Christopher was silent. It was a horrible moment. 
The small close room, the sound of that gasping 
breath, the livid face on the pillow affected him pain- 
fully. Involuntarily he made for the door. Mara’s 
eyes followed him. With a sudden sense of coming 
loneliness she murmured his name. 

“You’ll be going to Ireland just the same, Mr. 
Christopher. But I must stop here. ” 

For a moment he hesitated. Katty Quirke was 
nothing to him. Merely an incident among many 
incidents that were associated with Mara. Why 
should he alter his plans because of — this? 

“Of course it is that you must stop here,” he 
answered. “But my Aunt Jane will look after you. 
You will always have a friend in her. ” 

“But — I can’t go to Ireland on Monday.” 

“On Monday— no; that is not possible now. But 


273 


| 

The Call of Erin 

you could go — later. Ireland will always be there, 
you know. ” 

She was silent. She did not tell him that to go 
there without him was a totally different matter. 
That the patient waiting of years had always held a 
vision of duality, raised by his first suggestion. He 
and she, wandering together through the green valleys, 
and over the shadowy hills. He with his queer 
fanciful talk, and she the enchanted listener. He to 
transcribe what she was~always seeing ; the Something 
More in all that nature held; the faces in the shadows; 
the voices of the whispering leaves; the grey and 
ghostly meaning of the twilight. 

But of these things she could not speak. She 
watched him cross the narrow landing and descend 
the stairs, and then she seated herself beside the sick 
woman. 

A little hoarse whisper reached her ears : 

“You’re there, Mara darlin’?” 

“Yes, Katty, ” she answered. 

“ Don’t be lavin’ me, child. . . . It’s gettin’ very — • 
dark. ” 

Katty Quirke died on the Sunday morning. But on 
Saturday night Christopher had taken the train to 
London, and next day crossed over to Ireland. 

Miss Jane began to believe in a special Providence. 

Through the Post 

Gresham Hotel/Dublin, 
April 7th, 1 8 — 

Dear Jeanne: 

I promised to write to you, though, as you well 
know, I hate letter writing. It is either a natural gift, 

18 




274 The Rubbish Heap 

or it is not. Words that come to me so easily when I 
speak, halt and shrink into corners and play all sorts 
of tricks when I take up a pen. 

Still I keep my promise. So — en avantl 

The Channel behaved well. You woiild not have 
suffered any inconvenience. It was early morning 
when we sighted the coast. The famed Bay of 
Dublin looked lovely under the smiling sky, and the 
city itself was a thing of wonder to my first sight. 
For, strange to say, I had not thought of Ireland as a 
place of cities. Possibly for that reason I make all 
haste to leave this one. However, en par enthuse, I will 
observe that, had you accompanied me, you would 
have been quite well accommodated. After a bath and 
a breakfast I consulted with a friendly waiter, who 
somewhat resembled the good Tomlinson, and who 
talked a little more intelligibly than the porters, and 
drivers of strange vehicles. 

I put my case before him. He told me his name was 
Donovan. He grasped the situation with the quick- 
ness of his race. 

“ It’s the wild country parts you’d be wanting to see 
to get to know Ireland. Sure, this place isn’t Irish at 
all. Now where I come from — ” (I omit a large quan- 
tity of family history) ” — that’s the place for you to go 
to, sir, especially as you would be painting the scenery 
for pictures. ” (Quaint, was it not? Did he suppose 
I should paint the scenery as a house-painter paints a 
house !) 

“And how would I get there?” I asked, dropping 
naturally into the vernacular, as it is spoke. 

“You would have to take the train to the West,” 
he said. “Perhaps — there’d be changes; it’s not the 
direct line that goes to Cluinamara. ” 


Through the Post 275 

“How long would you take to get there — walking? ” 
I asked. 

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t like to say. I never did it 
myself, not on me own two legs, sir.” (As if he could 
have done it on anybody else’s!) “You’d best take 
the train to Galway, and then ask at the hotel for 
Cluinamara. A car might run you out there, but 
if you’d sooner be walkin,’ why — that’s an aisy matter 
to settle.” 

So I arranged to start off for Galway by the next 
possible train, leaving Donovan lamenting my indiffer- 
ence to the sights o’ Dublin, even its famous Phoenix 
Park. 

But, dear Jeanne, as I have told you I do not come 
to places for sight-seeing; and as for parks, I have seen 
of them more than I can remember, and like cathedrals 
they’re all “very much of a muchness.” (I don’t 
know if this is an Irishism ?) 

I should like to know about Katty Quirke. You 
might send me a line to poste restante , Galway, and I 
will call for it. I suppose, dear Jeanne, that if the 
poor Katty departed this life you would look after 
Mara. You ought to do so, if only in gratitude for the 
contretemps that spoilt our plans, and saved you the 
mat de mer of the Irish Channel! 

Ever yours affectionately, 

Christopher. 

A Week Later 


April 14th. . . . 

Dear Jeanne: 

No letter from you as yet. I write this to say that 
I am enchanted with this part of Ireland. Galway 


27 6 


The Rubbish Heap 


itself is a maritime province. It has two towns: an 
old and a new. Needless to say it is the old that 
charms me. And the fishermen, and the girls, they 
are all that is picturesque and — paintable. I have not 
yet set to work. I want to get into the wilder part of 
the country, where are the bogs, and the morasses, 
and the strange Slieve Boughta mountains. But, I 
await the news of home before I start. I hope all is 
well. This has seemed a long week. 

Yours affectionately, 

Christopher. 

April 1 6th. 

Dear Jeanne: 

Your letter at last. So the poor Katty is no more. 
She was, as you say, a sort of landmark of the place. 
It will miss her no doubt. This country brings back 
to me her quaint talk, and queer ways. You say she 
made a will — leaving everything to Mara? I wonder 
if the contents of the shop will be worth much money? 
I should not think so. And, how strange, that Mara 
does not wish to go to you! You say that Monsieur 
Dax will adopt her? ... I knew he was fond of 
her, and that she was useful in many ways. Still I 
should have imagined that she would prefer to live with 
you, or is it that she fears the strict rule of the good 
Augustine? You say that Mara has no word of 
disappointment as to the visit to Ireland, nor did she 
express disappointment to me. Perhaps, she did not 
care so much as I feared. Since I am here I will 
frankly say I am not sorry to be tout seul. I do not 
know what I should have done if I had you and Mara 
to look after. Certainly not gone ‘‘on the tramp, ” as I 
intend to do. I will write you again when I am at a 


277 


Through the Post 

postal district. But, for the present, I am wishful to 
avoid such districts, and to worship Nature at her own 
shrine. 

Give to Mara the expression of my sympathy. I 
think she will be happier on the island than she was at 
the curio shop. . . . How funny it is to think of that 
sale. One wonders what will be done with the 
“Rubbish Heap”? 

Fare thee well, dear Jeanne — 

Bien affedueux 

Christopher. 

May 7th. 

Dear Jeanne: 

What a truly surprising budget of news it is that I 
receive from you. I left an address at the post office 
for forwarding any letters, and today I stepped from 
the Wilds to the Civilized, and went to the little town 
(or village) I had directed, and there at the post 
office were your letters. 

The story of the curio shop is indeed strange. But 
I know Monsieur Dax is an authority on curios, and 
possibly he was right to send the selected articles to 
London. But what a sum to realize. £2000! Why, 
the little Mara becomes something of an heiress, is it 
not? I should have thought £100 would have well 
estimated that stock of rubbish. But the world is full 
of surprises. And you say Mara will be well educated ; 
she may go to Bruxelles ? Truly, one draws the breath 
of astonishment! But I lose my patient little model, 
so I fear, and for me that is a misfortune. Still I am 
doing good landscape work here, and have even secured 
the subjects of the two remaining studies I am due for 


278 


The Rubbish Heap 

the Fairy Tales. If you see le cher maitre, you may 
tell him so. I forward them later. 

To Mara and yourself my love, and congratulations, 

Christopher. 

May 20th. 

Dear Jeanne: 

I have received no letters since I last wrote to you. 
But since then I have been a strange pilgrimage to the 
heart of a valley hidden in a curious triangle of mount- 
ains. What I found there of tragedy and strangeness 
is something I cannot well describe. But it was also 
something which lent a purpose to this visit of mine. 
For, years ago I heard a story whose broken links I 
never could unite. I put it aside. I dared not let 
myself think too much upon it, for I knew that I must 
live for my Art, and not for past memories. Yet year 
by year a fancy grew ; a voice called to me ; and though 
I stifled it and it grew fainter, I yet could hear it in the 
grey dawns, in the silent nights. It was the voice of 
my father , Jeanne, and sometimes it held a note of 
warning, and sometimes a note of fear. Then — at last 
— I yielded to the call. There was something in his 
life he wanted me to know. Something my mother 
had never suspected ; nor I. 

Well, Jeanne, I am on the track of that secret , and if 
I ever learn it, it will be the key that opens many 
mysteries that concern us all. I can see your blue 
eyes open wide as you read this. “What then has 
he, this Christopher?’' 

Well, dear Jeanne, he has that “bee in the bonnet” 
of his most unhappy father. Perhaps a wiser and less 
buzzing bee, but a disturbing one, tout de mtme . 


279 


Through the Post 

It is in solitude that one learns the great truths of 
life, and all the strange disturbed years that I have 
known seem only to have been shaping me to this end. 
To find out how sad and wonderful a thing love is, and 
how sad and wonderful a tragedy lies hidden in an 
bbscure Irish valley. It is not my love-confession I am 
giving you, my innocent Jeanne; it is that of another 
and it is terrible, and its sequence is far-reaching. 
Possibly you could not conceive it to yourself. 

I am returning to Cluinamara tomorrow, the queer 
little village that Donovan advised me to visit. Per- 
haps I may find letters awaiting me. But whether 
there are letters, or not, I want you as soon as you 
receive this to send for Mara. Give her this message : 
“ Christopher has found your convent. ” 

Then, dear Jeanne, if she will come, you must take 
her to London yourself ; give her in charge of the guard 
of the Irish mail at Euston, and I will meet her at 
Kingstown, and bring her here. 

She will be quite safe, even though she has never 
been a long journey of this sort. Do not, in the name 
of all that is convenable , derange yourself in the matter, 
or think you must accompany her. Frankly, Jeanne, 
I do not want you. Also, if you do not think I am to be 
trusted, it is better I never set foot in your house 
again. Now farewell. Attend to this matter I 
beseech you. More depends upon it than you can 
imagine. 

Toujour s & vous 

Christopher. 

P. S. 

I open this to say I have received your letter and 
the telegram. Dieu! What has happened to her? 


28 o 


The Rubbish Heap 

I shall go to Dublin at once and see if I can find any 
trace of her there. 


Telegram 

Mara has left here. We think for London. Dax 
has followed. Much distressed. 


Jane. 


SHIFTING SCENES 


The Past Returns 

If ever the much-abused Irish railway received a 
double share of such abuse it was when Christopher 
hurried back from County Galway in the West to 
County Dublin in the East. 

It seemed to the impetuous youth that never had 
trains been so slow, connections so painstakingly 
missed, or officials so obligingly unconcerned as to 
when or where a traveller arrived. This special 
traveller was in a ferment of anxiety. 

The telegram in his pocket had been read a dozen 
times, and he knew its bald information by heart. 
Yet still he put the same perplexing question — “ Why 
had Mara done this foolish thing?” 

It was so sudden, so unexpected, so uncalled for. 
He had thought her safe on the island, cared for and 
guardianed by the old artist ; her fortune now assured, 
and her position in every way better than his own. 
And she had flung all this aside and run away ! 

For a moment, as he thought of her beauty and her 
innocence, and complete ignorance of the dangers of 
life, his heart stood still. He blamed himself for not 
having delayed his own journey a few days, even 
weeks. Y/hat would they have mattered. But he 
had allowed a selfish horror of death and trouble to 
281 


282 


The Rubbish Heap 

outweigh his feelings, and her wishes. He had broken 
his promise, and possibly that fact had outweighed 
other considerations. 

She might easily have written, or told him that now 
she was free, she wanted to re-visit her native land. 
For he felt sure it was there she had come. And in 
what roundabout fashion would she set out on her 
pilgrimage? It had been no easy matter for himself, 
and then it was by accident more than design that he 
had found the valley and the convent of which she 
had once spoken. 

It had “leaped to his eyes, ” as he expressed it, in a 
day’s wandering. It had been a scene of desolation ; a 
cluster of broken walls, a medley of huddled cabins, 
weed-grown paths, scanty potato patches; a tiny 
chapel, and in a sheltered nook between lough and 
mountain the grey old convent. 

He would have recognized the place from Mara’s 
description. For there, in the soft twilight, towered 
the “Sorrowful Mountain.” From below in the 
valley came the sound of convent bells, and here was 
the chapel and the priest’s house, and the cabin which 
had been Mara’s home. 

The triumph of the discovery had brought a 
momentary elation followed by sharp regret. She 
ought to have been here by his side. Together they 
should have set about unravelling that mystery sur- 
rounding her early life. 

He had asked shelter for the night at the priest’s 
house. But he was a comparatively young man. 
Mara’s friend had left; gone to some other parish. 
The next day Christopher returned to the more 
civilized hamlet, whose name always brought Mara 
back to his mind. He had wondered if there was any 


The Past Returns 


283 


connection between the two names? He had reason 
to wonder more as he turned back page after page of 
that tragic history thrown by chance upon the rubbish 
heap. 

The little etched picture, the fragmentary confes- 
sions, the scenes of that tragic episode, the very 
history of that lawless gang, these were to hand as 
discoveries. These patched together the story of 
his father’s sin. These seemed for ever demanding 
that the sin should receive its due punishment, even 
if the innocent suffered for the guilty. 

With his head buried in his hands, with his brain a 
tumult of conjectures and regrets, the boy sat there 
in the hot, dusty, uncomfortable carriage, and 
wondered why Fate had seen fit to set him this task. 

Dublin at last. 

He sprang from the train, left his travelling bag at 
the luggage office and hailing a car drove to the 
Kingstown Pier offices. His description, and in- 
quiries met with no result. No solitary young lady 
appeared to have arrived within the time given by 
the telegram’s date and his own appearance on the 
scene. 

Christopher was at a loss what to do next. He 
went to the police, however, and gave a description 
of Mara, and had the satisfaction of hearing that it 
would be telegraphed to the various stations and 
districts between Dublin and Connaught. The 
result would be given to him next morning. 

Tired out after his journey and the excitement of the 
day he secured his bag and returned to the Gresham 
Hotel and the welcome of the sympathetic Donovan. 
He had some dinner, and despatched a telegram to 


284 


The Rubbish Heap 

Miss Jane stating his ill success, and begging further 
particulars if they were possible. 

Later — Donovan brought him a whiskey and soda, 
and asked him his opinion of the district he had 
advised as typically Irish. 

“It was wild enough, I hope, sir? Not that there’s 
the stirrin’ times now as used to be. Ah, those were 
the grand days. There never was an able-bodied 
man but took his kippeen 1 from the chimney-corner 
and went out to the faction fight with the glad heart, 
whether it was duty called him, or just divilment. 
The stories me own father had of thim times, ’twould 
raise the hair of your head to hear thim! But it’s 
nigh a score of years since the last heads were broken, 
and the brave fellows disbanded by power o’ the law. 
You wouldn’t have seen any o’ thim, I suppose, sir, 
more’s the pity.” 

“I saw wild-looking men, and women too,” said 
Christopher. “But they seemed chiefly fisher folk.” 

“Ah, they would be that — these times. There’s a 
good trade doing that way. And would ye be paintin’ 
any o’ thim folk, sir? I ax it because there was a girl 
one time in the village that I was set on and might 
have married. Only I wanted to see a bit o’ life, 
and came here to the city and learned the waiting, 
beginning as boot-boy and workin’ upwards. You 
see I’d my ambitions, sir.” 

“I painted no figures; only a few bits of scenery,” 
said Christopher, somewhat wearily. 

“You’re tired I can see, sir. They’ve put you in 
the same room. I’m thinkin’ you’ll be glad of a 


1 Blackthorn stick. 


The Past Returns 285 

comfortable bed. There’s no hotel in Cluinamara, 
I’ve been told.” 

“Oh yes; at least it’s an inn, but they call it an 
hotel. A queer name it had. The ‘Michel Dhu, * 
whatever that means.” 

“Is that the way they’d be callin’ it? Well, now, 
it would be a wonder if *twas after him I’ve been tellin* 
ye of; the leader of the last faction fights. That was 
his name sure enough. A deadly terror he was, 
sir, and never known to forgive friend or foe that once 
offended him. But there, I can see the story don’t 
be interestin’ you. Ah, and there’s the new gentle- 
man, that came tonight, signing to me. Excuse me, 
sir.” 

He started off across the room, deserted now by the 
diners, and showing a vista of vacant disordered 
tables. To one of these tables a queer shabby figure 
was advancing. Christopher’s tired eyes, following 
the waiter’s retreat, caught sight of something familiar. 
He sprang to his feet and rushed across the room, and 
almost threw himself into the arms of Marmaduke 
Dax! 

“You, you; it is indeed you! Ah ! but how strange, 
how impossible!” Christopher was almost in- 
coherent by reason of relief. “And have you found 
her?” he went on. “Since I had this telegram I have 
been all upset.” 

Marmaduke Dax released himself from an im- 
petuous foreign greeting. 

“My dear boy, I am pleased to find you here. I 
suppose it is Mara you mean?” 

“But of course! Where has she gone and why?” 

“I don’t know. I have traced her to Euston. 


286 


The Rubbish Heap 

She has evidently come to Ireland. But to what town, 
village, or district, I cannot tell. But don't be so 
excited. Sit down here and let us talk it over, while 
I have some food. Have you been long in Dublin?" 

“No. I came on the instant I had the telegram. 
I have questioned at the Steamboat offices — at the 
police station — I can learn nothing. It gives one 
terrible anxiety, this foolish action. She is so beauti- 
ful, and so ignorant of life." 

“ I am not afraid for her, " said the old man. “ She 
is safe-guarded by a purity, an aloofness that would 
hold her sacred in any eyes. But what puzzles me is 
the secrecy of her action. I never thought Mara 
was one to brood over an idea, and then carry it out 
entirely on her own initiative. Yet that is what she 
must have done." 

“Tell me all — since I left," said Christopher, 
pulling a chair forward and seating himself. 

Donovan came up at the same moment and de- 
posited a tray with coffee, rolls, and boiled eggs before 
the old artist. He poured out some coffee, and 
drank it, before he replied. 

“I am greatly fatigued," he said. “I am not so 
young any more and this journeying and searching 
and anxiety have had their effect." 

“ Take some food first ; I will wait," said Christopher. 
“Since I see you I am more content. Certainly, 
between us, we will find her. It is only a question of a 
little time, and trouble. ... Oh, one question, cher 
maitre; had she money?" 

“I believe so — in fact I am sure. There were 
notes and gold in Katty Quirke’s money box, and 
she had the key. Everything was left to her, you 
know." 


The Past Returns 


287 


“Yes. I have been told that the sale realized 
quite a fortune for her. She knew of that, I suppose ? ’ * 

“Yes, I told her. She seemed quite happy with 
me on the island, only I do not think she liked the 
idea of school.” 

“Ah — perhaps she took affright, and thought to 
escape. But how cleverly she seems to have con- 
cealed her plans. It is, as you say, unlike Mara. 
The Mara we know ” 

The old man had been eating an egg and a slice of 
the roll while Christopher talked. He swallowed a 
second cup of coffee before he answered that last 
remark. 

“Does a man ever know a woman?” he then said. 
“Even the youngest and most innocent of women? 
They hold always a secret. Something we cannot 
learn; a mystery we never touch. We forget, you 
and I, that Mara was no longer a child in years. 
She had never been one in heart. Her very affections 
were restrained. She was as one who hovered between 
two worlds: the real and the unseen.” 

“The lost jee of the mountains,” murmured 
Christopher. 

“If there was any single human being she cared for 
in any human way it was you, Christopher, and I 
think when you started off for Ireland alone, it half 
broke her heart. She was never the same. She 
moved and spoke as one in a dream. The last day she 
went to the curio shop I lost her for hours, and then I 
thought of the old lumber room, and there I found her. 
She was sitting on the rubbish heap, just as when 
you painted her. When I spoke she seemed to come 
back from some long journey. She rose and came 
with me, as I asked her, but as she stood at the door 


288 


The Rubbish Heap 

and looked back on the room, and that pile of lumber 
in its centre, there was such sadness in her eyes as I 
have never seen. Still, she gave no hint of what she 
thought or brooded over. Had I known how strong 
was her desire to re-visit her native land, I — ” Their 
eyes met. 

“Yes, Christopher, I know what you are thinking. 
I am here — where I swore never to set foot again. I 
thought no power on earth would drag me back to a 
place whose only associations are suffering and — 
horror.” 

“ Cher maitre , I grieve to hear this.” 

“I don’t want to speak of it. I never have. But 
it’s unforgotten. It laid all my life sere and blackened 
before me. It held me cold to any human influence 
till Mara came to me.” 

“If we find her — ” said Christopher. 

“If? We must. I cannot go back to my life, my 
home, without her!” 

The boy frowned in perplexity. “Is it then that 
you constitute yourself her guardian? But had she 
agreed, she would never have left you.” 

“She left me, Christopher, to follow you .” 

“Ah no, no, monsieur, that I am sure is not the 
reason, for see you how simple it would have been to 
confide in Jeanne; to procure my address; to write 
to me. Yet none of these things has she done!” 

Suddenly he seized the old man’s arm. “Listen — 
I have thought of something! Let us go to that 
convent where she spent her first years. I have 
discovered where it is. Oh ! it was of the pure chance, 
I do assure you. But wait — I will show you some- 
thing!” 

His hand went to the breast pocket of his coat. 


The Past Returns 289 

He drew out a small flat letter case, and took from it 
a thin sheet of paper. 

“ See you that ?” he laid it flat on the table. “ I have 
discovered where it was sketched. Look you — the 
hill, the watching figure, and that ghastly evil face 
through the trees!” 

But Marmaduke Dax’s own face was ghastly now. 

“In Cod’s name how did you get that!” he muttered 
hoarsely. 

“How? Mon Bleu , but that is a story of itself! 
I — got it from the Rubbish Heap!” 

With shaking fingers the old artist took up the 
little sketch and seemed to devour its every line. 

“He is dead ... he who did that. Bead. How 
comes this to life again?” 

It was Christopher’s turn to stare now. 

“How can you know who did it, monsieur?” 

“Because — I was there. We were friends ; travelling 
light-heartedly through the country. And then — • 
something intervened, and separated us. Tragedy 
followed — and vengeance — and death ” 

Christopher sprang to his feet. “Look you then, 
monsieur, you have said so much that you must say 
more. Come with me to my room ; we can talk there 
undisturbed. If you know that little picture, and 
whose hand it is that set it there — then you knew 
my father ” 

Marmaduke Dax rose unsteadily, his eyes glazed 
with sudden fear. He swayed forward, clutched at 
the table, and before Christopher could help him, fell 
to the floor unconscious. 

It was long past midnight. 

Christopher, wearied and perplexed, sat by the 


19 


290 


The Rubbish Heap 

bed of his old friend and teacher. After that fainting 
fit he had seemed to recover, but, as yet, he had not 
spoken. In the dim light as he lay back on the 
pillows, his face looked like a mask. Again and 
again did the boy marvel what had set that seal of 
frozen terror on its features. 

What action or memory could have so altered him? 
There had been a doctor in the hotel, who had revived 
and assisted him to bed, and given a composing 
draught. He spoke the usual professional jargon. 
“ Over-fatigue . . . the Channel crossing ... a 
nervous shock.” But he had advised Christopher 
to watch him through the night, and, if possible, 
encourage sleep. 

i\nd all these hours Christopher had sat there going 
over and over again the scene and the words that had 
been precursors to this attack. The more he thought 
of it the surer grew his conviction that this man 
must be the compagnon de voyage of whom his 
father had written in that diary of events. That he 
held the sequel to that half-finished story. That he 
alone could throw a light on the after-happenings of 
that tragic dawn. 

And at the very moment when the truth might have 
been revealed this had happened. 

No wonder his head throbbed, and the lines of 
pain and suspense drew deeper furrows on his brow. 
No wonder that speculation seemed to madden 
instead of satisfy his brain. When the old man at last 
was sleeping peacefully, he stole from the room to his 
own which adjoined it. He opened his bag, and took 
from it the old pocket-book, and the fragments of that 
strange journal. Then he went back, and seating him- 
self beside the curtained bed, he read them yet again. 


The Past Returns 


291 


“If Marmaduke Dax was the friend, then he was 
with him till that night when he and Moira of the 
genaiga ordha 1 fled to the mountains. He must have 
heard of the discovery, the pursuit of those wild 
men. He must know what happened to the girl; 
to my father? . . . But now I recall his words — he 
seemed to think he was dead. I know better. He came 
home to us again, though he looked ill, and his arm 
was injured. And la bonne maman she would say he 
was a different man. Never any more gay, insouciant , 
as of old. Oh! shall I ever get at the end of that 
story, the fate of that woman who seems to have 
spoilt two lives! For my father, he could not ever 
work again as he had done before. And as for 
Monsieur Dax, he never has worked after. Why? — 
I have yet to learn.” 

Again he examined the little sketch — marvelling 
at the ingenuity which had given that evil face so 
strange a hiding-place. 

To whom did it belong? The fierce lover of the 
girl? The leader of that gang of ruffians? ... If so, 
what form had his vengeance taken on her, the 
innocent cause of all this tragedy? 

He folded up the papers again, and restored them 
to their place. His eyes were heavy for want of 
sleep. His temples throbbed painfully. Suddenly a 
sound broke the stillness of the room. He started 
and listened. 

“I swore to kill you, Philip ... if you harmed 
her. I shall keep my oath!” 

The boy rose, and looked at the speaker. He was 
sitting up. His face wore a dull purple flush; his 


1 Of the golden hair. 


292 The Rubbish Heap 

eyes looked up and away to some place where his 
wandering brain had fled. 

And over and over again he muttered those words : 
11 1 shall keep my oath .” 

“But you did not kill him. Oh, monsieur, listen! 
listen! Do not so vex yourself with thought of a 
crime you have never committed. My father lived 
— he returned to me — to his home. He lived 
many, many years after that time of which you 
speak !” 

The wild eyes sought his face, but they held neither 
comprehension nor recognition. The muttering grew 
feebler, but it still persisted. Christopher put one 
of the powders that the doctor had left into a tumbler 
of water, and gave it as directed. The soporific took 
almost immediate effect. The restless hands grew 
quiet; the eyes closed. The healing touch of nature 
smoothed out the traces of grief and pain, long 
nourished and torturing as all such secrets are. 

At eight o’clock in the morning Dax opened his 
eyes. He gazed in bewilderment at the room, and 
the anxious face beside him. “What . . . where 
...” he began, but Christopher stayed further 
questioning. “You were taken ill, cher maitre; an 
indisposition of faintness. It was the result of your 
long journey; your anxiety. But you look quite 
yourself now. You have had six hours of quiet sleep. 
Now, you must have some nourishment, and get well 
as fast as you can.” 

“Have you been here all night, Christopher?” 

“But yes; the doctor said you must not be left 
alone.” 

‘ ‘ That was good of you, my boy. But you look 


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293 


awfully fagged. You must go to bed and get some 
sleep. I am quite well, you need have no fear.” 

“I cannot go to bed, when the day is here, and the 
sun high in the heavens.” 

He went to the window and threw it open. “No, 
all I want is a cold bath, a change of linen, and a cup 
of hot tea. Will you promise me cher maitre to remain 
just as you are while I go to arrange these matters?” 

“ My dear boy, of course I will. I am not going to 
add to your anxieties, I want to help you.” His face 
grew perplexed. “I remember . . . quite well how 
we met and talked.” His hand went to his brow, and 
ruffled the thick grey locks with an uneasy motion. 
“I talked — yes; you were to show me — some- 
thing?” 

“Do not, I pray, think of those things now!” 
entreated Christopher. “It is all right; all explained.” 

“No!” cried the old man, with sudden passion. 
“Not if you are Philip’s son! I remember — God! 
yes, I — I remember ” 

“I am his son,” said Christopher calmly. “But 
you seemed to think he died here — many years ago. 
He did not. He returned to France; he lived for 
long afterwards.” 

“Is that true? He returned to France? Then — 
then— I ” 

“There was no — accident,” said Christopher hur- 
riedly. “And when you are stronger, and better, 
we will read the story together. It is all written 
here .” 

He touched the book in his hands, watched by 
hungry, incredulous eyes. “Let me — see; let me 
read it?” 

“I am afraid it may excite you, cher maitre .” 


294 


The Rubbish Heap 


“Excite me! Heavens above, boy! do you know 
that for nigh on twenty years I have lived with the 
memory of a crime shadowing my soul, eating out 
all the joy of life ! Give me that book, and if what you 
say is true ” 

Christopher put the leather pocket-book into the 
trembling hands. 

“Sometimes it is that desperate remedies cure 
desperate cases,” he said softly. “ N'importe — who 
would not rather die of joy than forego the hearing 
of it!” 

An hour later when he returned to the room, the 
sick man was lying back against the pillows ; a smile 
of ineffable peace upon his lips. He opened his eyes 
as Christopher bent over him. 

“It didn’t — kill,” he said huskily. 

“No . . . God be praised! Cher maitre, lie you 
there, and drink in the blessed peace of the morning, 
and of your own relief. I will now ring for the good 
Donovan, and we will have some breakfast.” 

He rang the bell, and ordered tea and rolls and 
milk, and assured himself that he was a nurse of the 
first quality. 

“What next?” demanded Christopher, as the meal 
ended. “You must at least rest tranquil this day. 
But I will go to the steamboat again, and to the 
police. They may have some news.” 

“But I have much to tell you. These records are 
— as yet — incomplete. Don’t you wish to hear ” 

“I am consumed with a curiosity; but I refuse that 
you excite yourself until the doctor has been and 
given you permission.” 


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295 


“I feel quite well.” 

“You do not look it, cher mailre; and I have no 
desire that you fall sick on my hands, of that be well 
assured. Listen, a moment; an idea comes to me. 
I will send a telegram to that convent, and ask if 
Mara is there. She may have had so much the start 
of you that she has already reached it.” 

“But can a telegram reach a spot so wild, and so 
remote?” 

The boy’s face fell. “True — I forgot. There is 
only a small village post office. I saw no telegraph 
wires. Then nothing remains but that I go there 
myself.” 

“You seem very sure that Mara has gone to that 
convent?” 

“Where else would she go? 

“Christopher,” the old man’s face grew very 
anxious ; he leant forward and touched the boy’s arm. 
“I want to ask you a question.” 

“Eh bien , monsieur , I await it.” 

“It is this. Do you feel more than a friendly 
interest in Mara? Is there any — any sentiment in 
your heart ? You understand ’ ’ 

Christopher’s eyes flashed amazement. “Senti- 
ment! Do you then mean am I in love with her? 
Cher maitre } what a strange idea! No — and again 
no; and a hundred times no! I could never regard 
her in — in that way. She is so aloof; so apart from 
ordinary human passions.” 

The old man breathed a sigh of relief. “Iam glad 
to hear you say that. The fear came to me. ... I 
think it was because of your anxiety, and then you 
have been so much together, and she is so lovely.” 

“That is true, but it is the loveliness of someone 


296 The Rubbish Heap 

not altogether mortal. And, in herself, she is cold. 
Have you not noticed? She never kissed any one, 
even the good little Jeanne who loved her so. And of 
affection for any special person she showed never any 
sign. If it is that sort of thing you feared, put it aside 
at once. If I had had a sister, which the good maman 
never saw fit to provide, I would have regarded her 
as I do Mara. That is all.” 

“Christopher, it is strange you should say that; 
very strange. You echo a fear in my own mind. . . . 
I am as one who stands on the brink of a great dis- 
covery, yet is afraid to take the one step more which 
means certainty.” 

“Master, how strange you look! What is it?” 

“I will not tell you yet. I must have time to 
think. My mind will have to travel back a long way, 
and what it finds and what the search will mean, 
may not be pleasant hearing for you, Christopher.” 

The boy’s face paled suddenly. It seemed to him 
at that moment that what he would hear would only 
be what he had expected to hear since first the story 
of Philip Agglestone’s sin had come to his son’s 
knowledge. 

He was silent. And on the silence came a knock 
at the door, and the doctor’s voice asking permission 
to enter. There was a sense of tension relieved as he 
gave the permission, and answered the questions and 
received the assurance of the old artist’s speedy 
recovery. 

But twenty-four hours’ rest in bed was insisted 
upon. “Darken the room. Keep him perfectly 
quiet. No letters, or papers, or talk.” 

Christopher promised the orders should be obeyed. 
“I have waited five years with this knowledge in 


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297 

my heart,” he thought. “One day more or less 
signifies little.” 

A kindly Irish chambermaid promised to give all 
attention to the invalid. He was to have only milk 
and soup as diet. 

Then, all arrangements being satisfactory, Chris- 
topher left him in the hotel bedroom, while he set 
out to see if there was any news yet of Mara. 

The police had heard nothing of any one answering 
the description given. Christopher was at a loss 
what to do. A frantic letter from Miss Jane be- 
sought news. He thought it best to telegraph that 
Marmaduke Dax was here, and they were both doing 
their best to trace the girl. 

He then turned in the direction of the Phoenix 
Park, and sat down under the trees, and tried to 
think out the mystery. To and fro ran thoughts 
and conjectures. To and fro the busy shuttle of 
imagination worked on the threads of possibility. 

Slowly and surely he traced the hand of destiny 
in all that happened. His coming to his aunts’ house; 
his accidental visit to the curio shop; the discovery 
that Mara, like himself, was a bit of the flotsam of 
that wreckage of human lives, washed hitherwards, 
and stranded on Time’s shores. 

Swifter and swifter grew the movements of the 
shuttle. A pattern sprang to life from out the twisting 
threads. He saw his work crowned with success. 
The idea that had had its birth in the old lumber 
room that spring morning, had leaped from brain 
to canvas. He remembered his own words: “A 
veritable Rubbish Heap, and amidst it a jewel of 
Fairic , like yourself.” 


298 


The Rubbish Heap 

Something of Falrie she had always seemed. A 
creature of moonlight and shadows and dreams. Not 
of the earth, and scarcely of her sex, or what its 
charms meant to the senses and passions of man. 
Somehow, today, he felt glad of that. Glad he had 
never kissed the lovely lips, or by any word, or deed, 
attempted to lift the veil from that chaste innocence 
which meant her soul. Her very beauty had been a 
barrier more than a temptation. It had been frankly 
given to Art — and to himself. But neither had 
desecrated it to any unworthy subject. 

Then from the beginning of the story his thoughts 
swept swiftly to the present time. Why had she not 
said she wished to return to her own country? Dax 
would not have opposed it, nor Miss Jane. 

A sharp twinge of remorse shot through his heart. 
“ I ought to have waited, I ought to have remembered 
that promise. She lost faith in me, or read my 
selfishness aright. And so she took her own way 
and has gone straight to that goal she set herself.” 

He had thrown his hat aside on the bench, and it 
had fallen on the grass a few yards away. Now, as 
he pushed back the heavy hair, which for some artistic 
fad he wore rather longer than was conventional, 
he noted a long claw-like hand creeping along the 
grass, and making for the hat. 

He smiled, half amused. The theft was so palpable 
and seemed to him so useless. The thief himself was 
invisible, screened behind a belt of shrubs. Chris- 
topher saw the hat secured. Then he rose and called 
out. “That’s mine, if you please. Just drop it!” 

The hat fell to the ground, and the youth made a 
quick spring forward. He ran swiftly behind the 
shrubs, and came face to face with a tattered forlorn 


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299 


figure. A something abject, and yet evil; fierce 
with hunger and the necessities of humanity, and yet 
so plainly an outcast to all that human civilization 
conveyed, that his heart ached with sudden pity. 

“Why did you do that?” he asked. 

A harsh laugh answered the query. A tornado of 
words fell pell-mell from the shaking lips ; the shrivelled 
hand outstretched to steal clutched its rags and 
trembled in defiance. Christopher could not under- 
stand half of what was said. But the famished wolf- 
like face and glittering eyes spoke their own tale 
eloquently enough. 

There is no beggar quite so awful, and quite so 
appealing as the Irish beggar, for he has behind him 
the traditions of race, and the passionate sense of 
injustice which turns even his petition into a demand 
for the rights denied to him. 

Christopher felt sick and sorry and ashamed as he 
looked at the human derelict, and listened to the 
storm of fierce words. To this creature he was only 
an enemy; someone who had so wronged and robbed 
his race that never could any vengeance be fierce 
enough to satisfy their savage hearts. And yet as 
he stood there, his shoulders squared, his head held 
high, the bright sunshine lighting his hair, and the 
involuntary compassion in his eyes, he made no 
figure of the tyrannical oppression of which this 
outcast complained. 

“I’m sorry for you,” he said gently. “If you are 
hungry, and have no roof to your head, as you say, 
will you accept this? The hat wouldn’t have fetched 
so much, I think.” 

He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a half- 
sovereign and handed it to the beggar. There was a 


300 


The Rubbish Heap 

fierce clutch; the man lifted up his head, and his 
bleared eyes looked up at the young compassionate 
face. With a muttered oath he drew back. The 
expression in his eyes outshone the dirt and the 
unshaven beard of long growth. It frightened 
Christopher for a moment so evil it was, and yet so 
amazed. 

“In the name of all the devils in hell who do you 
be! Are ye a livin’ man — or — ” The muttering 
died into the ragged beard. Fear and horror looked 
out of the dilated eyes. The whole shambling figure 
seemed to wither and shrink, and totter as if fear had 
deprived it of its last remnant of strength. 

“What is the matter?” asked the boy. 

“It’s the face av him, the voice av him! The 
voice and face that worked her soul’s damnation! 
By all the powers av hell have ye come out of hell 
to claim me now?” 

And, with a sudden outburst of savage strength, 
he raised the rough stick on which he leaned and 
struck with all his force at the erect young figure. 

Christopher started back, but his assailant had 
over-taxed his own energy. With a choking cry he 
fell to the ground, a heap of rags, and wretchedness, 
that only harboured resentment. Christopher shrank 
from touching the loathsome object. He ran out 
from the shrubbery into the path beyond, and looked 
about for help. 

In the distance a park keeper was sauntering slowly 
along. The young man shouted and arrested his 
attention. He came up with the indifference of 
one accustomed to breaches of the peace, and less 
curious than annoyed when he saw the cause of his 


summons. 


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301 


“That dirty ould blackguard — Michael! Sure, 
isn’t he the disgrace to the place, an’ him warned ivery 
day av his life niver to be showin’ the filthy face of 
him in a dacint quiet park like this!” 

“He seems to be in a sort of — fit!” exclaimed 
Christopher breathlessly. 

“He does. Maybe it’s best to let him come out of 
it; or it’s mal-lingrin’ he may be. Ye could niver 
tell what they’d be doin’, thim beggars; an’ he the 
worst of the lot. An evil jail-servin' record behind 
him too.” 

“If you know him,” said Christopher, “had you 
not better take him off to a hospital, or somewhere? 
You can’t leave him to die on the cold ground there.” 

The guardian of the law made a sudden step for- 
ward. He had seen something shining on the grass, 
near the outstretched hand. 

“What’s this?” he cried, as he picked it up. “It’s 
stealin’ again he’s been, the thafe of the wurrld!” 

“No, no. I gave him that. I felt so sorry for 
him.” 

“Well, it wasn’t the wisest thing ye could have 
done, ” said the official. “For if he’d tried to change 
it, sure, that would have been suspicious, an’ no one 
would believe he’d come by it honestly. A shillin’ 
now, or a sixpenny piece, that wouldn’t have mattered ; 
but gold — ye’d best take it back, sir, an’ no wurrd 
will be taken in evidence, for I’d not say anything.” 

“I don’t want it back,” said Christopher, with 
sudden disgust. “Keep it yourself, if you like, or 
spend it on the poor wretch there. Surely there is 
some place where he could be cleaned and fed, and 
given Christian burial, if he dies?” 

“There’s the hospital, sir, of coorse. I think it’s 


302 


The Rubbish Heap 

there I’d best be takin’ him. But I’ll call up another o’ 
the keepers, and see what we can do.” 

“Very well,” said Christopher. “But I should 
like to know what — what happens? Could you come 
round this evening to the Gresham? I am staying 
there. Ask for Mr. Agglestone. I will make it 
worth of your while.” 

“ Sure, sir, any one could see that you’re the generous 
gentleman. I’m not thinkin’ of it that way at all, sir. 
But I’ll do my best for the ould sinner, an’ let you 
have wurrd this evening.” 

“Good morning,” said Christopher, moving away 
and picking up the hat which had occasioned all the 
trouble. 

“Good mornin’ to you, sir; an’ thank you for your 
kindness. You’re English I suppose, an’ that’s 
a quare thing to have happened to him, lyin’ there. 
For he hated the English with a cruel powerful hatred. 
Sure wasn’t he jailed more than once for attempted 
murder of one of thim.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, ” said Christopher. “And, 
as you say, it is a queer thing that I, one of the race he 
hated, should befriend him at the last. For, I fear, 
it is the last. Fie looks as if he was dying, poor 
wretch.” 

“Ah well, that’s what we’ll all be doin’ if we lives 
long enough,” said the philosophic official. “And 
here’s Matthey Callan cornin’ up. He’ll lend a 
hand now. Don’t ye be troublin’ yerself any more, 
sir.” 

Christopher nodded, and turned away at last. It 
was not till he reached the entrance gates that the 
little faun-like smile twisted his lips. He was wonder- 
ing whether official number one was only anxious for 


The Past Returns 303 

his departure lest official number two should hear of 
the transference of that half-sovereign? 

Christopher returned to the hotel, and found that 
Marmaduke Dax had had some nourishment, and 
then fallen into a deep tranquil sleep. 

He resolved not to enter the room for fear of dis- 
turbing him. He ordered Donovan to bring him 
some lunch, and sat in the half-empty dining-room 
watching his fellow lunchers, and thinking of that 
painful scene in the Park. The vindictive hatred of 
the beggar’s face haunted him, as well as the strange 
words he had spoken. 11 The face of him , the voice 
of him that worked her soul's damnation!" 

Whose face and voice had he recalled ; and why had 
it occasioned that sudden outburst of fury which had 
almost torn the life from out that feeble frame? 

With a sudden start Christopher’s hand went to 
that breast pocket where he kept the little sketch. 
He took out the case, and the queer drawing, and held 
it at the distance when the leaves seemed to form the 
similitude of a face. 

As he looked and looked with ever closer attention 
he caught the full deadly hatred of the eyes. It 
reminded him of the awful hatred in that beggar’s 
eyes. 

“Strange ! Could they by any chance be the same ?’* 
he thought, and even as he thought it, he rebuked 
himself for saying “Chance.” Was anything in life 
— chance? Did not events and circumstances shape 
themselves in accordance with some will that guided 
human destiny to its appointed goal? Did not this 
wave of New Thought spreading over the earth prove 
that the natural phenomena of life and the universe 


304 


The Rubbish Heap 

were bounded by the most startling and yet the most 
obvious realities? For generations people had shut 
their eyes and closed their ears with holy terror of 
what they termed the abnormal, but science had 
worked steadily on, and supplementing science were 
the mental activities of thought. Thought as a real 
living agent in the scheme of life, and a motive power 
in its existence. For years he had held in his own. 
mind one thought. The unravelling of that mystery 
respecting his father; the end of that unfinished story. 

And now, looking back along the line of action, he 
could see quite clearly how event after event had 
shaped itself into a concrete bit of evidence. 

Not for nothing had that Rubbish Heap been 
thrown together, that queer and lovely jewel of life, 
flung carelessly among its contents. Not for nothing 
had the Lowestoft bowl tempted the eyes of a pur- 
chaser, or a simple error turned into an important 
factor of Destiny. 

To and fro, his busy thoughts ran as ants upon an 
ant heap, seizing, sifting, analysing, until the appear- 
ance of Donovan, with — “’Twas cold beef, you said, 
sir, ” aroused him to commonplace facts. 

He began his lunch with little appetite. That face 
and shape of starving humanity were always before 
him. The tragedy of human life ground down by 
poverty and oppression had faced him in this land 
as in no other. Possibly because the foreign element 
he had recognized in other countries was not so 
evident as in this country. In the poverty of France 
and Italy and Spain there was always an element of 
the picturesque — a smiling content, born of sunny 
skies and smiling landscapes. Here, it had shown it- 
self as a crude horror; a something that past centuries 


The Past Returns 


305 


had inaugurated, and with which present civilization 
could not cope. 

The whole tragic meaning of it had flashed with 
painful force before him. The innate rebellion of a 
race that hated its conquerors; the implacable thirst 
for vengeance that had threatened his own life even 
when his proffered charity had meant physical 
relief. 

Puzzling indeed. And yet the puzzle had meaning. 
It had called him from the thoughtlessness and selfish- 
ness of boyhood to sudden recognition of the more 
serious issues of life. It had set even Art aside for a 
time, as of less account than a starving beggar’s 
hatred. W as that hatred — impersonal ; or individual ? 

“I should like to know,” he thought to himself. 
“I never felt quite so uncomfortable; possibly it is 
I have never before incurred quite such animosity 
. . . yet why? That is what I ask myself. Is this 
morning’s event also part of those events which have 
made of my life so queer and twisted a skein?” 

He left the luncheon table, and went to the reading 
room, and there penned a long letter to Miss Jane, 
telling her of all that had happened, with the exception 
of the incident in the Phoenix Park. 

The afternoon proved uneventful. No news was 
to be had at the police station, and when Christopher 
came up to the old artist’s room at five o’clock he 
looked somewhat hopeless and despondent. 

Marmaduke Dax was sitting up in bed, a pile of 
pillows behind him. He still looked somewhat frail, 
and his eyes had a strained tense expression as if 
something was troubling his mind. The chamber- 
maid had just brought up some tea, and placed it on 


20 


3°6 


The Rubbish Heap 

a table by the bedside. Christopher dismissed her, 
saying he would pour it out, and sit with the invalid. 

“You are worried; have you heard anything fresh ? ” 
asked Dax. 

Christopher shook his head. “No, not about 
Mara, But I had an adventure this morning.” 

He related what had taken place in the Park. 
Dax listened intently. 

“It is extraordinar}^ ” he said. “You’re sure 
those were his words?” 

“I could not easily forget them,” said the boy. 

The face of him; the voice of him ! ” 

“Have you that little etching at hand?” 

Christopher took out the case and the sheet of 
paper once again. “Here it is.” 

The old artist gave a prolonged scrutiny to the draw- 
ing. “I wish you had a magnifying glass, ” he said. 

“I have — in my bag. It’s one of my paraphernalia 
of equipment. Shall I fetch it?” 

“Do.” 

When he returned with the glass in his hand, the old 
artist examined the face again. 

“I believe I knew this man,” he said. “He was 
one of a band of lawless ruffians, who were the terror 
of the district to which they belonged. They shot, 
pillaged, murdered; there was nothing too evil for 
them to do. This man, Black Meehul, they called 
him, was a nephew of the farm people where your 
father and I lodged. If this is the face I think it is, 
then it was Black Meehul who planned that murderous 
assault. ...” 

He stopped abruptly. 

“You mean — where the journal ends, that I gave 
you to read?” 


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307 


“The story that I can, perhaps, complete;” said 
the old man. He laid down the magnifying glass, but 
Christopher seized it, and examined the face in his 
turn. 

“It is — I am sure! Yes, cher maitre , it is the face 
of that man in the Park. Do you think when he saw 
me that he thought it was my father? I never saw 
such rage and terror in any human eyes.” 

“Meehul Dhu was a devil, not a man,” muttered 
Dax. His own face had grown stern and cold; his 
lips were trembling. 

“Now,” he exclaimed, with sudden desperation, 
“ it is my turn ! I have a confession to make. It is not 
one that I like to make, but I owe it to you, I think, 
for your confidence in me. Sit there, Christopher, 
and command your soul in patience, while I tell you 
the sequel to that miserable story.” 

Christopher obeyed. The chair was a little to the 
side of the bed. He could only see the speaker’s 
profile; thin and sharp-lined against the white pillows. 

“You know how we met — Philip and I. (I never 
knew him by any other name.) We became friends. 
We had much in common; similar tastes, the pursuit 
of the same art. He was much younger than myself, 
and light of heart and gay of speech. You, Chris- 
topher, have that too at times. How often you 
reminded me of him, and tortured me because of such 
reminder. To stifle reproach I did my best for you. 
I taught you to paint, and assured your future. There 
is a great one before you if you choose to work for it. 
But to return. A man may have a friend, Christopher, 
and enjoy all that friendship means, until a woman 
steps in between them. You know what happened, 
and you know how she chose him, though God 


3°S 


The Rubbish Heap 

knows I loved her best, and have loved her all my 
life. . . . After Philip disappeared so mysteriously, 
I was at a loss what to think. I did not at first couple 
that disappearance with Moira. She would come and 
go in most uncertain fashion. For days we would 
not see her, and then she would be back at the farm. 
... At last I packed my bag, and paid up the good 
woman who had lodged us, and set forth for the 
mountains, as we had arranged. I lost my way. 
That was little wonder. It was a wild strange 
country. But, in summer time, one can put up with 
the grass for a bed, and the boughs for a canopy, 
and the stars for candlelight. I made nothing of such 
discomforts then. . . . One evening, I found myself 
in the very heart of a valley. A place of rugged huts 
and wild savage-looking people, whose language was 
as barbarous as themselves. They seemed so un- 
friendly that I feared to stay. I trudged on, tak- 
ing my chance of finding something more civilized. 
What possessed me to leave the beaten track and 
turn into a queer narrow boreen I cannot say. But 
that was the way I went until twilight faded, and I 
wondered where I should rest for the night. I came 
at last to a sort of cave set in the side of a hill. It 
might have been a fox’s lair; it did not look inviting. 
But I made up my mind to throw in some ferns and 
grass for a bed and stay the night. . . . I — I went in. 
It was very dark. I lit a match to look round. As 
I did so, a faint moaning sound caught my ear. It 
might have been the plaint of a wounded animal. 
I thought at first it was. But I lit another match 
and went farther in and saw . . . God! boy, I can 
hardly bear, even now, to speak of it! I saw a woman 
lying there, a crushed awful heap. Her splendid 


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309 


hair was blood-stained, her limbs bruised, her face — 
Oh! the horror and the agony of that face! . . . 
Christopher, it was Moira who lay there! My 
splendid, beautiful Moira. ... I heard her story 
... I can never repeat it. But I knew your father was 
responsible for her sufferings; for the outrage she had 
endured . . . for sake of his safety. I think I hated 
for the first time in my life. It is not a pleasant time 
to recall ... I wish I could forget it. 

“All I could do for her I did. A man can be a 
tender nurse if he loves what he tends. I found water 
in a spring near by. I bathed her face, and washed 
the stains from that lovely hair. I made a bed for 
her of wild grasses, and my own light travelling rug. 
When morning came she was in high fever. I 
watched and nursed her through long days and 
nights. I had some simple remedies — saline and 
such like — that I always took with me. I gave her 
occasional doses, knowing neither if they would harm 
or heal her. I suppose Nature did that. For gradu- 
ally the fever left her. But her mind was gone, 
Christopher. She was as a child; as helpless, as 
dependent. She trusted me for everything. I 
thanked God then in my heart that I could be trusted. 
. . . But I must hurry on. This is too painful to 
dwell upon. One day, in my search for food, I came 
across a queer little cabin. It was some two miles 
farther down the valley. But I thought she was 
now strong enough to walk there, with my help. 
There was a bed in the corner, one of those wooden 
frame beds that the peasants have, and some furniture. 
A little farther still I came upon a woman, bent and 
ragged and harsh of features, but not unkindly. 
She spoke a little English. I learnt that the cabin 


3 10 


The Rubbish Heap 

was hers. I asked if she would shelter a poor wander- 
ing soul who had lost her mind. I offered to pay her 
well. I could afford it, and the rapacious soul of 
the peasant closed with the bargain. That evening I 
brought my poor girl there, and saw that the bed was 
given her, and that some simple food of meal and 
goat’s milk was procurable. Days lapsed into weeks. 
I could not bring myself to leave her. I have said 
she was like a child, and who can turn from a child’s 
helplessness? 

“Then one day, when I came up from my own lodg- 
ing in the village, the woman looked curiously at me. 
She made a strange accusation. One that set my 
blood boiling with indignation. . . . Christopher, there 
was to be a child born of this suffering demented soul 
. . . a child! I think something in my face and words 
must have convinced the woman that I was innocent 
in the matter. Of my own horror and despair I — 
I cannot speak. For I knew she had fled with Philip. 
I knew that the vengeance wreaked upon her had been 
of his bringing, and I knew that this child would be 
his” 

“Ah — stop!” cried Christopher, springing to his 
feet. His face was livid, his hand shook as he caught 
the old man’s arm. “Do you know what you’re 
saying? What — this is meaning to me! . . . My 
father — ” Something rose in his throat, and choked 
back the words. 

“Yes,” said Marmaduke Dax. “Your father, and 
Mara’s father, are the same, Christopher.” 


It was all so clear now. The spoken sequel to 
the written confession. The tragedy hidden away in 


The Past Returns 


3i i 

j 

those wild mountains, destined to influence those two 
lives. 

“Mara,” faltered the boy. “The child of the 
Sorrowful Mountain. The little strayed elf that 
I painted so carelessly — Mara! My God!” 

“There is more to tell, if you can bear to hear it? 
There is the story of an hour when I vowed vengeance 
on Philip, and roamed like a madman on his track. 
For I had learnt news of him, and I found he had not 
left the country. I heard of him, now here, now there; 
perhaps he was searching for the girl he had ruined, 
or perhaps like myself pursuing a scheme of vengeance 
on that ruffianly crew. Well, one day — we met. 
Face to face we came. He was trolling a light song, 
swinging a stick, as he walked. Something in the 
careless voice, the handsome, reckless face set my 
blood afire ; made me for one mad moment ‘ see red * 
as the murderer sees. I seized his arm, and wrenched 
the stick from his grasp and struck him to the ground. 
Again and yet again I struck. Then I heard my own 
laugh echo over the solitary hillside . . . and so 
laughing fled the long night through — where, I neither 
knew nor cared. 

“I had lost everything. The woman I had loved; 
the friend I had admired. I lost too the power to 
think rationally, or calmly. 

“ I never saw Moira of the golden head again. 

“ I think I was ill, or lightheaded for many long 
months. I was taken care of by some friendly 
fraternity, I don’t know their name, but they were 
very good to me, and when I was sane again, I painted 
them an altar-piece for their chapel. That, Christopher, 
was the last time I ever painted, till I helped you. . . . 
Months passed. When my clouded brain cleared I 


3 12 


The Rubbish Heap 

seemed in some stunned remorseful moment to recall 
my murderous deed. But it would escape me again. 
I could not even remember Philip’s name. . . . And 
so at last I left the country to which I had gone so 
light-heartedly, and where all I had possessed of 
heart, and brain, and the gifts a man holds dear lay 
buried in a grave of remorse. ... I found I had 
plenty of money, not only from my paintings, but 
also through some relative’s death. It gave me 
independence. Then I bought that tiny islet, and 
made my home there. . . . And now, can you, 
Christopher, or any soul under heaven, tell me why 
this child was sent — to me? Why — though the 
seas of death, and shame, and bitter sorrow rolled 
between our lives — she yet could bridge them? Why 
tonight, you and I, youth and age, stand united 
by one desperate need: the need to find her; to com- 
fort her; to make, if it is in our power to make, some 
restitution for the wrong done to her?” 

“I cannot tell you,” said Christopher, brokenly. 
“It is only that I see the hand of Fate through all. 
It led the lost fee of the mountains to our side; it 
left her there in that old room, on that rubbish heap, 
the jewel of price amongst the refuse. So it is with 
Life ” 

“Yes,” said the old artist, “so it is with life. 
But we must find her, Christopher. We must bring 
her back to happiness, and to love. . . . We have 
a heavy debt to pay — though we never incurred 
it.” 

“You — have surely paid your share, dear master,” 
murmured the boy. “All those long years of banish- 
ment ; the forfeiture of all your art meant ; the loss of 
love, friends, and all home ties ” 


The Past Returns 


3i3 

“You shall give me them, Christopher — you and 
Mara. ” 

“If we find her?” 

“We shall find her, Christopher; never doubt it. 
Though I swore never again to set foot in this land, 
yet I am here. Though I vowed that no power on 
earth should lead me to Moira’s grave, yet I am 
travelling thither. The hand that led us here will 
lead us on ... it may be leading her too ... to the 
foot of the Sorrowful Mountain.” 

“Someone to see you, sir.” 

The door opened. Donovan stood there. Chris- 
topher turned vaguely towards him. He felt stunned, 
and bewildered. Events had crowded so swiftly on 
each other, that his mental equipoise was in sore 
need of adjustment. 

He must find Mara at any cost. He must atone 
for his father’s sin. He must regard her welfare as a 
future charge. These thoughts were pressing upon 
him. He had lost touch with other matters. 

“To see you, sir,” persisted Donovan. 

“Who is he? What does he want?” 

“I couldn’t rightly be sayin’, sir. He’s a park 
keeper, by the looks av him.” 

Christopher started. “Yes, of course. I’ll come 
down, Donovan. I remember now.” 

He glanced at Marmaduke Dax. “The story I 
told you,” he said. “That beggar ” 

“Yes?” 

“I asked this man to let me hear what happened. 
I expect he has called for that reason.” 

He left the room, and followed Donovan to the 
deserted reading-room, where he found the official 


3H 


The Rubbish Heap 


of the morning in possession of an arm-chair, and an 
illustrated paper. He rose as Christopher entered. 

“Good evening, sir. You were telling me to bring 
you wurrd of that ould man you were so kind to. 
We got him to the Infirmary, sir, and they did their 
best for him. He's got but a few hours to live, so 
the nurse was tellin’ me, an’ he does be moanin’ an' 
ravin’ all the time. But he’s been cleaned a bit, an' 
looks less av a scarecrow. He won’t have the priest, 
the onnatural heathin! Well, sir, I just thought 
I’d be callin’ round, an’ tell ye this, as you seemed so 
consarned about the ould vagaybond.” 

“Has he mentioned any names ; asked for any one? ” 

“Divil a name, sir, but ‘Moira,’ or the likes av 
that. It’s a name we have in Ireland, sir; a pretty- 
soundin’ one to be on thim ould savage’s lips!’’ 

Christopher’s own lips paled with sudden emotion. 
“Moira?” It may have been a common enough 
name in this country, but all the same there was a 
“ Moira” concerned in the tragedy he was unravelling. 

“I wonder,” he said slowly, “if I could see 
him?” 

“ Av course you could, sir, though it’s an ungrateful 
blasphemous ould man you’ll be seein’. Sorra a 
bit av good there is in him!” 

“Prison, and misery, and misfortune may have 
something to do with that,” said the boy sadly. 
“We are not always the best judges of our fellow 
mortals.” 

“Maybe we’re not, sir. But if you’d be knowin’ 
as much of the police records as I do, you’d be judgin’ 
your fellow mortals accordin’ to thim. An’ none too 
good an opinion ye’d be bringin’ out av thim same 
records an’ that’s the truth, sir.” 


The Past Returns 


3i5 

“Well, anyway, I should like to see this man again. 
So just wait a minute, and I’ll come with you.” 

“As long as you plaze, sir. It’s off duty I am till 
six in the mornin’.” 

Christopher ran up the stairs to the invalid’s room, 
and told him of his errand. 

“If he should be the ‘ Meehul Dhu’ you spoke of, ” 
he said, “I might get some more information respecting 
that raid, or whatever it was. Now, dear master, all 
is straight between us, remember that. You must 
rest, and sleep, and get up your strength, and then we 
will set out on our quest — together.” 

“I am quite well. A night’s rest is all I need. 
Tomorrow we will start, Christopher.” 

“Yes, cher maitre; tomorrow.” 


The Infirmary ward was clean and wholesome- 
looking. There were several occupants, but Chris- 
topher’s friend, the park keeper, took him across 
the room to a quiet corner where a nurse was sitting 
beside a bed. The boy saw the emaciated face, and 
wild eyes of the beggar man. He had been “cleaned, ” 
as the official said, and the matted hair was cut and 
combed back from his prominent temples. But the 
fierce eyes, and claw-like hands, were a fresh horror 
to Christopher’s sensitive feelings. 

He so loathed sickness, and suffering, and poverty. 
They were an offence to every artistic instinct, and 
even compassion could not render them anything but 
an offence. 

He was doing violence to his feelings by this visit, 
and when he saw the dying man he wished he had not 
come. The nurse rose, and offered him her chair. 


3 l6 


The Rubbish Heap 

but he refused it. He had no wish to sit down; he 
only intended a hurried interview. 

The claw-like hands were plucking at the sheet; 
the laboured breath came in short gusty spasms. 
He was mumbling over and over again that one name 
— “ Moira, — Moira. ” 

Then a few words of the native Gaelic would fol- 
low, and then again the name. “Moira — my colleen 
na genaiga ordha! ...” 

“He doesn’t know me,” said the boy, stepping back 
a few paces. “I only came to see that he was com- 
fortable and cared for. He seemed so destitute. ” 

“He should have come to us long ago,” said the 
nurse. “But it’s queer the way these paupers would 
be keepin’ off, and puttin’ off, though it’s clean and 
comfortable and well fed they are here; only they 
won’t believe it.” 

The glazed eyes of the dying man turned suddenly 
to Christopher. It was awful to see the effort be- 
hind the gaze; the endeavour of escaping senses to 
concentrate on some special memory. Then a low 
babbling murmur came from the parched lips. 

“It’s you, is it? Hauntin’ me? You — and Moira,, 
as you stole. ... I thought I’d settled with you, 
damned Sassenach that ye be; a thievin’ heretic 
whose soul I sent to hell!” 

With a shudder of horror Christopher turned away. 

“His brain is wandering, ” said the nurse. “That’s 
often the way. They’ll be back in past times, and 
seein’ things as is long past and gone. But it’s the 
evil heart of him as is rememberin’ the evil deeds. 
God’s pity on the man!” 

“Look — ” cried Christopher. “He’s trying to get 
up!” 


The Past Returns 


3i7 

For the man had raised himself with sudden strength 
and was bending forwards. 

“Who’s that standin’ there?” he hissed. “Tell 
me the name av him, that I’ll lay me curse on him 
before I die!” 

“Hush, hush,” said the nurse, laying him back on 
the pillow. “You mustn’t be having such wicked 
thoughts ; and you, perhaps, speedin’ this same night 
to your Maker. Lie you there now, Meehul Dhu, 
and make your peace with God, while the breath o’ 
life’s remainin’.” 

“I’ve a wurrd to say to him — beyant,” muttered 
the man hoarsely. “Bring him to me bedside, an’ 
lave us alone.” 

She turned to Christopher. “You hear, sir?” 

The boy nodded, and swallowing down an incipient 
nausea advanced. “I’m mindin’ who it is . . .” 
came the hoarse whispers; “ye were good to me. 
An’ tho’ you bear his face who was me enemy, maybe 
ye’re a better man. Ye wouldn’t steal the jewel av 
a man’s heart, an’ set him lone an’ desperate wid the 
madness that was in him. . . . It’s not ye . . . who 
took my jewel an’ made her . . . made . . . her ” 

The words broke, lapsed into the Gaelic mutterings 
that were incomprehensible. 

“I killed them both!” he cried wildly. “I seized 
her from his arms, an’ dragged her to the sea, an’ 
there I left her to drown . . . drown . . . an’ now 
I’m drownin’ too. . . . The wide sea is there; an’ 
blood red it is — an’ it’s crawlin’ nearer, . . . nearer; 
it’s got me — ah-h-h! ” 

A shrill scream rent the air. His head fell 
back. 

Christopher, white and shaking, turned away. 


318 The Rubbish Heap 

The nurse came up, she straightened the rigid limbs r 
and drew the sheet over the terrible face. 

“You’re sorry you came, I’m thinkin’, sir,” said 
the park keeper. “But what was I tellin’ ye? A 
bad ungrateful lot they is, and this man had the worst 
record of all the beggars in the place. He’d steal 
from a child, he would. Ye look that white, sir, I’d 
be suggestin’ the laste taste o’ somethin’ to raise the 
spirit av ye. I know a quiet dacint place, just handy.” 

Christopher was paying no attention. He knew the 
man took his arm, and that the cool air in the street 
was blowing over his face. And, presently, he knew 
that he was sitting down somewhere, and drinking 
something, in company with his friend of the morning. 

But his brain held only the memory of that scene. 
He knew, at last, how terrible a price can be paid for 
a man’s brief infatuation. 

There was little talk that night between the tired 
boy and the old artist. The one was mentally 
exhausted; the other sad with recurrent memories. 
But they sat together, and planned for the morrow’s 
journey, since now the one object in their lives was 
to find Mara and restore her to peace, and such 
measure of happiness as lay in their power to give her. 

Christopher felt a little thrill of natural tenderness 
in the thought that she belonged to him. That their 
strange, if unlawful, relationship meant the nearest 
human tie he possessed. 

“ Perhaps that is why I was led to her ? ” he reflected. 
“Why we had so much in common. Perhaps my 
father knew , and directed our meeting in that strange 
place ? . . . There are more things in Heaven and in 
Life than we dream of ” 


The Past Returns 


3i9 


He was very weary. He bade the old man good- 
night, and went off to his room. He fell asleep at once 
and slept too soundly for dreams. He woke refreshed, 
and with renewed energies. An hour later he and 
Marmaduke Dax set forth on their mission. 

The evening of that day brought them to the little 
fishing village where Christopher had previously 
stayed. From here, to the valley of the convent, 
was too long a journey for that night. They rested 
at the little inn, and next morning set forth on the 
last stage of that quest. 

“If she has gone there,” said Dax, as they waited 
for the hired car, “I am wondering by what way she 
travelled? She has never been seen at any of the 
stations. She never came here, which you say is the 
direct way. Either she has not reached it yet, or she 
has gone by a route of which we know nothing. ” 

“Do you recognize this place, as the one to which 
you came with my father?” asked Christopher. 

“No. It is so altered ; even the name is unfamiliar. ’ * 

“They have changed the old Irish names; Angli- 
cized them. That’s another wrong to Ireland,” as 
the people say. 

“She has suffered many,” said Marmaduke Dax. 
“Her head is heavy with the weight of sorrows she 
has borne. No wonder the tear outweighs the smile. 
Her whole history is tragic as her soul.” 

Christopher was thinking of Mara, typical child 
of this tragic land. Born of passion, reared in solitude, 
transferred to alien soil, and through it all preserving 
the spirit of innocence and faith. 

“When I see her again I will paint her as that 
type, ” he thought to himself, and then sighed over 


320 


The Rubbish Heap 

memories of that atelier where she had first been 
consecrated to art. 

They drove into the deep green heart of the valley, 
and ascended on the other side, and then came sud- 
denly on Christopher’s discovery. 

“It is your picture, is it not, cher maitre?” he 
demanded. 

Marmaduke Dax agreed that it was. 

The memory of that fatal visit, of all the shame 
and suffering it had brought swept back to his mind. 
Was it indeed, as the boy had said, Destiny is a 
force none may resist, and all must reckon with? 
Vain to shun this land for all those lonely years; 
vain to thrust aside the relics of that past. 

They had thrust themselves forward with irresistible 
strength. They had demanded their price of silence. 

They left the car and went slowly up the hill to the 
convent. It stood back between high walls and the 
gate was locked. Christopher rang, and a small 
grating slid back, showing the wrinkled visage of 
the old porteress. 

His question met with a decided negative. “No 
young lady had come thither; no stranger of any 
sort for months past.” 

Christopher turned to his companion. “What 
shall we do now?” 

“Could we see the Mother Superior?” asked Dax. 

The porteress said she would enquire, and left them 
there. They were silent; both busy with conjectures. 
The old nun returned in a few moments, and admitted 
them. 

“The Reverend Mother will see you,” she said. 


The Past Returns 


321 


and gave them to the charge of another sister who led 
the way along a stone passage to a small bare room 
where she bade them wait. Here they remained for 
another five minutes, both in a state of suppressed 
excitement. 

Then the Reverend Mother came to them; her 
impassive face showing little of the actual curiosity 
she felt. 

“You — tell her,” said Christopher huskily, and the 
old artist, after a respectful greeting, explained their 
errand. 

“No, the child has not returned to us,” she said. 
"‘Though I always hoped she would. She is not one 
of those for whom the world would have attraction.” 

‘‘I — am her brother!” exclaimed Christopher 
suddenly. ‘‘She did not know — I did not know 
myself until — quite recently.” 

“Certainly she did not know,” was the calm reply. 
"‘And — if you will pardon my saying so — it is not 
possible that Mara has a brother. The story of her 
birth is known to me; the unfortunate creature who 
bore her died here, and gave me her confession. The 
child was put out to nurse with a peasant woman, 
who had lost her own babe, and who brought her up. 
We had her educated. Then, quite suddenly she dis- 
appeared. Yet we have always hoped for her return.” 

“Many things have happened to her,” said Dax. 
“She found friends, and has been well cared for. 
Also, by some curious chance, she has been left a large 
sum of money. I — am her trustee. This young man, 
as he told you, has discovered the secret of her birth 
and that his own father was also — her father. The 
child is still in ignorance. Why she left her English 
home, and whither she has gone is a mystery. We. 


322 


The Rubbish Heap' 

thought it possible she might have returned to you. 
Perhaps she may be on her way now?” 

“Has she ever said she would come back to us?” 
demanded the Mother Superior. 

“Not in so many words. But she often spoke of 
the convent, and of this place. I feel — I am sure she 
will come here.” 

“ If she does, ” put in Christopher, “will you, please, 
let us know at once? We have — I mean — we are in 
great anxiety about her. You see, madame, this 
discovery has made so great a difference. I feel it 
my duty to protect her; to give her a home. I am an 
artist — by profession. I hope to make a good income. 
Her welfare would be my care, I do assure you.” 

The grave unsmiling eyes searched his face, and 
then turned to the haggard anxious one of the older 
man. “And you, sir, do you stand in any relation to 
this child?” she asked. “It cannot be surely that 
you are ” 

“No, no! I am not her father; but I knew him. I 
was his companion in that journey whose end was so 
tragic.” 

“Did you know her mother?” asked the Superior. 

“I did. It was I, in a way, who saved her life. 
Those Irish brigands left her for dead; the head of the 
gang was mad with jealousy, and my friend had given 
him good cause. I found her wounded; almost 
dying; I helped her back to life, or perhaps Nature 
put in that fight for her rights in the matter. I 
made all possible provision for her, and for the ex- 
pected child. Then I left the country. I have never 
set foot in it till now.” 

“It is a strange story,” said the good Mother, 
gravely. “The beautiful distraught creature who 


The Past Returns 


323 


came to us, in her dire need could only say that her 
lover was dead, and cry for vengeance on his mur- 
derers. She was maddened by grief and shame. I 
never thought the child would live. But it did. I 
should have liked to bring her up with us, but the 
foster mother was so attached to her I could not force 
her to give her up. We did our best to educate her, 
as far as we could. Then suddenly the woman died, 
and the child disappeared. I felt deeply grieved. 
I thought she might write, or let us know what had 
chanced to her. I always believed that one day she 
would return. That she had not quite forgotten.” 

“No — she never forgot,” said Christopher, and he 
related how the old sea captain had found her lost 
and wandering in the mountains, and had brought 
her to his own land, and given her a home. 

“And you say she is beautiful, and will inherit 
some wealth. How is that? You are aware of her 
illegitimacy?” 

“Yes,” said the old man, somewhat startled at the 
abrupt question. 

“That — being so, you can understand my feelings 
on the matter. To have no name, no rights, and yet 
so much beauty, and now wealth added to it is a very 
dangerous position for a girl. She is at the mercy 
of any unscrupulous person who may gain her affec- 
tion. The wisest thing she could do would be to come 
to this safe refuge. You — who profess to know her 
so well — must have discovered how strange a nature 
she possesses. The world could never tempt her as it 
tempts so many of her sex. Her soul was given to 
Christ and the Holy Mother long before she left us 
for that other home.” 

Again Christopher and Dax exchanged looks. 


324 


The Rubbish Heap 

They felt this pious creature was speaking from very 
sure conviction. They recognized that she had put 
into words the half-expressed fears of their own 
hearts. Mara was unlike most of her sex and age. 
Mara had shown herself unsuited to the life around 
her, and Mara, at the first opportunity of freedom, 
might well flee to this safe refuge, and vow her life 
and soul to its service. 

A bitter disappointment welled up in the soul of 
the elder man. To Christopher, the idea presented 
itself more as a solution of difficulties than an actual 
blow to his hopes. 

“I have told you, madame, that I have a brother’s 
right to this child. It has been our misfortune to own 
the same father. I had promised myself to atone for 
that wrong she has suffered. Her future would 
have been my care.” 

“And mine — ” said the old artist, sorrowfully. 
“ I had grown to love the child most dearly, and she 
seemed happy with me.” 

“ If she was happy why has she run away? How is 
it you know nothing of her whereabouts?” 

They were silent. The reason was as much a 
mystery to them as to the enquirer. 

“You see — she could not have been happy,” 
persisted the Reverend Mother. “The very opening 
of her life dedicated her to sorrow; the very name her 
mother chose for her meant bitterness and regret. If 
she returns to us, which you seem to anticipate, and 
which I hope may happen, that would be the very 
best thing she could do. Are you a Catholic?” she 
asked Christopher. “You are not English, I think.” 

“I am partly French, and I believe I was dedicated 
to your church by my mother.” 


The Past Returns 


325 


“That — is not a convincing answer. Mara is 
of us; she was baptized into our church. Nothing 
can alter that. I trust you see the matter in the same 
light as I do?” 

Christopher felt that he saw nothing of the sort. 
But a long period of relaxed duties and discipline in 
no way fitted him for a religious controversy. Neither 
did he in heart agree with the fundamental truths of 
the Catholic faith. Still, he had no desire to argue 
the matter. He told himself this good woman was 
right. What position in the world could Mara 
possibly hold, with no name, no rights? a history of 
shame and sorrow; a nature totally unfitted for the 
battle of life as represented by social demands? 
She would only go from unhappiness to unhappiness; 
tragedy to tragedy. 

“You mean that I should anticipate for her the life 
of the religeuse ?” he said at last. “It does not 
altogether present itself to me as commendable. 
The very sorrows you speak of demand some recom- 
pense. Mara has youth, beauty, gifts of soul, and I 
love her with pity and with natural sympathies. If 
she returns to you — voluntarily — it will be for her to 
decide what her future shall be. Will it not, mon- 
sieur, ” he added, turning to Dax. 

‘ ‘ That is so, ” he answered. 4 ‘ For my part I have so 
long foregone hope, or happiness, that an added dis- 
appointment counts for little. Besides my sands are 
nearly run out. I had hoped to keep the child in my 
home, but she has fled from it of her own will. That 
— would seem to decide her answer. Only, our anxiety 
is not yet allayed. The question of where she is, 
and why she left us?” 

“I regret I cannot alleviate it,” said the Reverend 


326 


The Rubbish Heap 

Mother gravely. “But I am sure you will do all in 
your power to find her. The world is an evil place, 
and dangerous for one who has only youth and 
beauty and ignorance as safeguards.” 

“I regret our errand has been fruitless,” said 
Christopher. “And it remains so mysterious — this; 
both her manner of leaving monsieur’s home, and her 
destination. There had been a long past promise 
that she was to come back here one day with me. I 
had to break that promise. I came here, true, but I 
came alone. Yet something tells me she meant to 
return. I am sure she will return, though, as yet, 
there is no trace of her. Monsieur Dax went off at 
once to London. He thought he had a clue, but it 
appears to have failed. I, on my part, have made 
all possible enquiries. The steamboat, the police, 
not a trace of her is to be found. I have terrible 
anxiety, I assure you.” 

“How did she leave this country in the first in- 
stance?” asked the Reverend Mother suddenly. 

Christopher started violently. “ Ciel! But you 
have it then, madame! . . . Cher maitre, of that we 
never thought. The sea-route! The way she came, 
by that she might return! There are always cargo 
boats going to and fro; steamships from other ports. 
Is it that you never thought of enquiring at Prawle— 
before you left?” 

“No — I never did!” exclaimed Dax regretfully. 
“I made so sure she would have taken the train and 
come here in the same way you had said you were 
coming. Of course, if the Reverend Mother is right, 
she could not possibly be here yet; not for weeks per- 
haps. A cargo boat is slow, and may not even land her 
on this side of the coast. Cork, or Kerry is more likely. ” 


The Past Returns 


327 


“But the suggestion is so probable. It takes a 
weight off my mind!” exclaimed Christopher. “Our 
best plan is to wire to the port authorities at Prawle 
and ask if anyone saw her leave. She was well- 
known. It should be easy to find her.” 

“We mustn’t delay. We are very much obliged 
and very indebted to you, madam, and we will follow 
up your suggestion without loss of time. It means 
a return to Galway town. From there we can despatch 
a telegram.” 

“If you get an answer you will let me know?” said 
the Reverend Mother. 

“But yes. And on the part of yourself, madame, 
you — if you hear — or receive her — will communicate 
with us, is it not?” 

“Certainly; if you leave your address.” 

Marmaduke Dax wrote it down on his card. 

Then they took their leave; their anxiety somewhat 
lessened. 


AN INTERLUDE 


The Lone Isle; looking backwards 

Very peaceful and altogether strange were those 
days after Katty Quirke’s death to Mara. 

She had accepted Dax’s invitation to stay on the 
island with a simple relief that pleased him. He 
knew that Miss Jane would have been glad to have her 
back at Agglestone House, but he had recognized 
that Mara shrank from going there again. Why — he 
could not understand. 

The child’s natural reticence had guarded that 
secret. For the time spent under Miss Jane’s care 
had been embittered by the savage persecution of 
Cherry Menlove. Not that the cherry-cheeked maiden 
revealed her methods. They were of the sly and mali- 
cious order. All unconsciously Christopher was the 
active agent in her jealousy. She had never for- 
gotten her own hours in the studio, the laughing 
mischief in his eyes, the chance touch of his hand 
that could set her blood aflame and make her long to 
fling herself at his feet and suffer or die as he should 
choose. Only he did not choose, he did not even see 
the adoration so surely his own. To him art was 
all-engrossing, and a model was but a subject. But 
Cherry could not know this. 

She had taken it into her head that she was as 
328 


The Lone Isle 


329 


important as Mara, and when she had been dismissed 
from the studio, always expected to be recalled. This, 
however, had not happened. Christopher had taken 
to painting at the island instead, and she learnt that 
Mara was again the model. 

The situation she had taken in the town afforded 
her more liberty than she had ever known at Agglestone 
House. It also enabled her to pick up a great deal of 
the idle gossip always circulated in such a place as 
Prawle. But what most concerned her and those as- 
sociated with her seeming insignificance was the “tak- 
ing up, ” as she called it, with one William Trench- 
ard, a young boatman. They walked out on her free 
Sundays, and loitered on the Quay on summer even- 
ings, and Cherry learnt much that interested her of 
the goings and comings of the sailing vessels, and 
coalers, and cargo boats. 

The death of Katty Quirke once more roused up the 
old stories and mysteries concerned with Mara and 
with Michael’s fate, but it was not until some news of 
the girl’s good-fortune leaked out that Cherry’s jeal- 
ousy deepened into actual hostility. 

Was she to have everything, this beggar’s brat, this 
nameless waif who had stolen into favour, and had 
drawn to herself that interest which she, Cherry, so 
passionately craved? At first she did not credit the 
news. “All that old rubbish,” as it was contemptu- 
ously called, could never mean a fortune! 

She talked it over with William, who of course had 
only “They says,” and “So I’ve ’eard” for confirma- 
tion. It was from him, however, she learnt Mara had 
taken up residence on the island, and was — to all 
intent and purpose — the adopted daughter of the 
eccentric hermit who owned it. 


330 


The Rubbish Heap 

The girl brooded over this for many days. Her 
slow-witted brain was busy with a scheme that should 
rid her of this rival once for all. Christopher was 
away. Agglestone House seemed indifferent. It 
occurred to her that if she could only get ear of Mara 
she might persuade her into doing something which 
would prejudice her in all eyes, and rid the place of her 
unwelcome presence. She had heard plenty of talk 
in the servants’ hall of the “Lone Isle,” and the two 
women-hating misanthropes who had lived there for so 
many years. That Mara should have won over one of 
these queer personages was only another point in her 
disfavour. But what of the other? 

William had told her many a tale of Chawley. He 
had often gone to and fro to the island; he had often 
taken Christopher there. When he heard that Marma- 
duke Dax had invited Mara to live there he gave it as 
his opinion that “ould sour bones” wouldn’t approve 
of that. 

“He hates wimmen like poison,” said the youth. 
“Shouldn’t be surprised if he did her a injury. Oh, a 
proper old tartar, that’s what he is!” 

Cherry’s heart leaped to sudden hopefulness. She 
might find an ally in her schemes. Between them 
they might work for Mara’s downfall, or disappear- 
ance. The one might mean the other. But there 
were difficulties in the way. 

In the first place she must get to the island and see 
Chawley. In the next Mara must be persuaded to 
leave it, and give no reason for so doing. To accom- 
plish these two desirable ends needed considerable 
care and skill. 

One Sunday she learnt from William that the old 
artist was going up to London on some business 


The Lone Isle 


33i 


connected with the curio shop. He would be away a 
couple of days. Cherry greeted the news with a sud- 
den resolve to utilize it. She asked for a day “off” 
from her mistress, on the plea of a relative’s illness. 
She next persuaded William to row her over to the 
island, on the plea that she wanted “a look at the 
place. ” The infatuated youth was only too pleased 
to accommodate wishes in that or any other respect. 

Once there, the girl set out to discover Chawley and 
enlist his aid in her scheme. She found him in the 
kitchen garden. His greeting was scarcely polite. 

“Another o’ you dommed femayles! What may 
you be wantin’?” 

Cherry Menlove was not gifted with much tactful- 
ness, but perhaps the broad outlines of her scheme 
were all the better suited to the old vagabond’s 
comprehension. The first hint of anything that could 
procure Mara’s banishment affected him to eager 
participation. 

“She’s allays been a-comin’ and goin’, and a-goin’ 
and cornin’. The place has never been the same. And 
now the master says as she shall stay here as long 
as she pleases. Brazen-faced hussy! I hates her! 

“So do I,” said Cherry. “Beggar brat, settin’ 
herself up as a lady, with her fine clothes, and her' 
book larnin.’ "Where is she now? Could I see her?” 

“In the verandy, most likely,” said Chawley. 
“She’s allays a-moonin’ round that there eesil, with 
her picter on it. ” 

“Another picture!” muttered Cherry. “And I — 
wasn’t even good enough to finish.” 

She came a little closer to the man. She whispered 
hoarsely and excitedly of a plan she had formulated. 

Chawley listened in surly silence. 


332 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Women’s cats,” he said at last. “Cats — nothin* 
more nor less. I wouldn’t ha’ thought o’ that. I’d- 
ha* let her bide, tho’ I’d be doin’ all my best as she 
shouldn’t be none too comfortable. Well, you can 
have a try. I don’t know if ye’ll succeed. The 
master may be back again tomorrow night. ” 

Cherry braced her energies. 

“Go you down and keep that silly William away 
from us,” she said. “I’ll see Mara, and do what I 
can. Mind, you’ll have to get her out o’ the place if 
she wants to go. ” 

“Trust me,” said Chawley fiercely. “Can’t think 
how you came to get that, though.” 

He pointed to a little shabby book the girl held. It 
looked like a prayer-book. On the back was a gilt 
cross, tarnished with age and wear. 

“I found it in a corner of that old woman’s room. 
The back door of the place wasn’t locked, I just went 
in and upstairs. I was all over the house. I wanted 
to see where — he — had painted that first picture.” 

“I ain’t ever see’d that , ” said Chawley. “Not but 
what I’ve heerd enough. The Rubbish Heap , ain’t it 
called?” 

“Yes,” said Cherry viciously. “Fit place too for 
her. Rubbish she is and always was. Can’t see what 
on earth they all made such a fuss of her for!” 

“Nor I,” said Chawley. “But you get in and see 
what you can do. I shan’t be sorry to see the back 
o’ her.” 

Cherry departed then and found her way to the 
verandah. 

As if further to influence and enrage her the first 
thing to catch her eye was Christopher’s easel, and 
on it the picture of The Little Mermaid . The beauty 


The Lone Isle 


333 


and vividness of the thing appealed even to her un- 
taught soul. She stood staring, and gasping, asking 
herself how that magic was performed, and how it 
created one subject and failed in another? A spasm 
of auger shook her. She felt as if she must tear the 
canvas from its stand and stamp out that wistful face. 
She made a step forward, her hand outstretched. 
Then — a voice arrested her. 

“Why, Cherry, ” it said, “what on earth are you 
doing here?’' 

The girl started, and with a violent effort assumed 
some sort of composure. 

“I came to see you, Mara,” she said. “I’ve — I’ve 
found something as seems to belong to you. I doan’t 
rightly know, because I’m a poor sort o’ scholard. But 
I’ve brought it. ” 

She held out the little shabby book. 

Mara, with wondering eyes, glanced at it, and took 
it in her hand. 

“ Won’t you sit down? ” she said. “ It is good of you 
to be troublin’ yourself about me. ” 

She looked down at the book. Cherry seated her- 
self on one of the rush chairs scattered about the 
verandah. Her jealous eyes swept the lovely face, the 
slight graceful figure in its simple black gown. Where 
did she get that look of “superiority” from? That 
innate dignity which always made her feel herself an 
inferior instead of an equal? 

Mara turned the book from side to side. “Why — 
it’s Katty’s prayer-book,” she said. “I’ve seen her 
take it to mass so she’d be following the Latin with the 
English words. ” 

“ I found it in the house. There’s something written 
in the inside of it,” said Cherry hoarsely. “Like a 


334 


The Rubbish Heap 

letter — that’s why I fetched it away, fearing it might 
be lost. They’ve pretty nigh cleared the house o' 
everything now. ” 

Mara opened the book, saw that the fly-leaf was 
covered with writing: ill-spelt words; but Katty 
Quirke was never great at spelling. She began to 
read them. The jealous eyes watching so intently 
saw the colour fade from her face, the sudden quiver 
of her lips. 

The book fell from her hand. Cherry seized it 
and held it out again, but Mara’s eyes were fixed on 
vacancy. She neither saw nor heeded the girl’s 
presence. 

Cherry’s voice recalled her. “ I read what was said, 
not that ’twas any sort o’ news. All of us knowed you 
for just a stray come-by-night, and Mr. Christopher, 
he only wanted to use you as them artist chaps 
use the light gals as sit for them. If you’d been a 
decent-feeling maid you’d never have stripped your- 
self like that , ” she pointed to the easel, “and stood 
flauntin’ your shamelessness before a young man’s eyes, 
not even a shoe, leave alone a stocking! Ashamed to 
death you’d ought to be if you’ve any sort o’ shame 
left to you!” 

“Cherry!” gasped the astonished girl. 

“Ah, don’t ‘Cherry’ me! I’m none o’ your sort. 
The folks in the town there don’t be putting their 
tongues out at me when I goes by. What d’you think 
is said of you over there? You’ve never heard 
maybe, but I’ve heard, and so’s Mr. Christopher. 
No wonder he went away. ” 

“ Cherry ! Cherry ! why do you say such cruel things? 
You look as if you hated me!” 

“So I do hate you; I always did!” 


The Lone Isle 


335 


She had lost control of herself now. The feelings 
so long nursed in secret took vengeance on suppression 
and burst forth with flaming cruel words, words that 
lashed the unfortunate hearer with whips of scorn. 
Words that tore down the whole peaceful fabric of life 
and rent it asunder and seemed to set her apart in 
some black desolate region. Herself and the shame 
that was her portion. 

No fairy tale was that which poured from Cherry 
Menlove’s lips. The vision of the Sorrowful Mount- 
ain was a vision henceforth illumined by the vivid light 
of an invention at once fiendish and plausible. The 
invention of a dull brain it is true, but with its dulness 
sharpened to one supreme effort of will. In vain Mara 
tried to stem the torrent. Once released it poured 
forth unrestrained; sparing nothing; concealing 
nothing. 

Lower and lower bent the golden head. Tears were 
no relief. She was too stunned even to think coher- 
ently. 

All she was conscious of was the dying message in 
that little book, the insistent urging of that fierce 
voice to go back to where she’d come from and end 
her days with those who had first befriended her. 

It was some hours later when a figure stumbled 
across the kitchen, to where Chawley was sitting 
smoking the pipe of content. Mara’s voice called 
to him. 

“Chawley, I must leave here — at once — before 
your master returns. Can you help me? I’ll pay 
you — I have money. ” 

“Surely.” 

The old man rose with alacrity. Cherry had sue- 


336 


The Rubbish Heap 

ceeded then. The Lone Isle was to be the Lone Isle 
again. 

“You won’t say how I’ve gone, or where, Chawley? 
Promise!” 

Chawley promised. 

Through the Post 

Slieve Dhu Hotel, Co. Galway. 
May 14th. 


Dear Jeanne: 

I write in haste to give you the latest news. 

We came here, Monsieur Dax and I, but yesterday. 
We made our way to the convent where Mara spent so 
much of her childhood, and there were received by the 
Rev. Mother. She had no news of Mara. Our hopes 
were dashed to the ground. There had been, what 
you call presentiment of our part, that she would be 
there, in her childish home in the heart of the mount- 
ains. But our errand, though fruitless, met with a 
certain wise suggestion on the part of the Mother 
Superieure (How trying that title to your strict 
Protestantism!). It was this. Why should not Mara 
have returned to her native land in the same way that 
she left it? By sea; and sailing craft. There are 
enough and more in that harbour of Prawle. She 
always remembered that voyage with the good 
Michael. When the idea came to her that she would 
return all that she had to do was to arrange for a pas- 
sage thither. She had of money — plenty ! Of that we 
are indeed thankful. Her small travelling equipment 
was merely the sac-de-voyage , I suppose? Possibly 
her departure was not noticed. I have sent telegrams 


The Lone Isle 337 

to the port authorities, but no reply has reached me 
yet. 

Dear Jeanne, I am grieved to think that all this 
will distress you very much. As for the good Augustine 
— to her it will simply be “I told you so; there is no 
gratitude in the lower orders, ” for as such she always 
classed our poor little Mara. 

Now, dear Jeanne, it is my intention to stay here, 
in Ireland, until I receive news of the child; and Mon- 
sieur Dax, I cannot persuade him to return to his 
island. We had not, I imagine, realized how attached 
he had become to Mara — or how fondly he had built 
up the hope that she would make her home with him, 
and cheer his solitude. 1 have only now learnt how 
very lonely and loveless is his life, and after all he is 
not so old. Something past fifty, he has told me, but 
we thought him much more, did we not? He has had 
a great sorrow in his life. It is in a way connected 
with our family. Perhaps that is why I have always 
been drawn to him. Why I mean to be his son of 
adoption, for do I not owe to him all my success, my 
dawning fame? . . . There, I grow egotistical. I 
must check that failing. And now in, or rather before, 
I conclude this letter, I must beg a favour of you, 
dear Jeanne. It is that you make, on receipt of 
enclosed instructions, a voyage to the island. You 
will find an old man-servant in charge. To him you 
will say that his master desires the sketches (left in 
the right-hand drawer of the oak bureau) to be given 
to you to direct and post to the address I give you 
here. 

They are my illustrations of the Fairy Stories. I 
had two more to complete, and have done them here. 
I have told you of that commission, and you know 


338 The Rubbish Heap 

Mara posed for The Little Mermaid , and The Ice 
Queen. 

Do you think you can do this for me? A rowing- 
boat can be hired from the Quay, and would take you 
across in a couple of hours. Tell the boatman to go 
to “Lone Isle . 99 They all know it. I hope I am not 
asking too much of you, but you were ready to 
accompany me here , you know, prendre son sac et ses 
quilles, and compared to that this I ask of you is a 
very insignificant little journey! 

The orders for the old man (his name is Chawley) 
I enclose. He is something of a character, un type 
original , but be firm. Say you have the full permis- 
sion of Monsieur Dax to act as his deputy. The 
cher maitre desires to you his respectful remembrance, 
and I, chlre Jeanne, am as always 

Your attached and dutiful nephew 
Christopher. 

P. S. You will be glad to have made the little 
voyage. The island is enchanting, and the petite mai- 
son des champs all of the most charming as a dwelling 
place. Once more adieu. 


SCENE XIX 


The Dining-room in Agglestone House. Morning 
The Action in the Scene 

Breakfast is ready. Tomlinson has handed Miss 
Jane her coffee. The letter on the table by her side 
may at last be opened, but deferentially she puts the 
question : 

“Christopher’s letter, Augusta; may I read it?” 

“Certainly, Jane, ” and stifling any outward sign of 
inward curiosity, Miss Augusta proceeds with her 
own repast. Miss Jane reads quickly, and with excite- 
ment. The paper flutters a little in her hand. At 
last she looks up. 

“Augusta, this is very strange. Mara is not yet 
found. But they think she may have gone to Ireland 
by sea, and from here!" 

“I should say that was very probable,” said Miss 
Augusta stonily. “For my part I fail to see why you 
are all taking so much trouble over her departure. It 
shows that she had no more need of you, or of Mr. 
Dax who had been so kind to her. I have always said 
that the lower orders possess no sense of gratitude. ” 

Miss Jane’s eyes fell upon a page of her nephew’s 
letter. Evidently Christopher could read character 
to some purpose. 


339 


340 


The Rubbish Heap 

“We must not judge her too harshly,” she said at 
last. “She was always strange and mournful. Per- 
haps her heart was in her own country and she could 
never be happy here. ” 

“You talk like a heroine of second-rate fiction!” 
exclaimed Miss Augusta. “I should like to say once 
and for all that there has been a great deal too much 
fuss made about this beggar child, for after all, what 
more was she? I have always regretted Christopher’s 
using her as a model, and your silly fancy for having 
her in the house. Thank goodness that didn’t last 
long. But even then she was ungrateful.” 

“Oh, no Augusta! Indeed she was not. You in- 
sisted on her being with the servants, and she did not 
like it. Sooner than see her unhappy I let her return 
to her old home. ” 

“There you go again! Unhappy? How could a 
child of her age be unhappy when she was clothed and 
fed and taught and pampered in every possible way! 
Ungrateful is nearer the mark, and discontented too. 
The truth is you were forcing her into an unnatural 
position. One for which she was entirely unfitted. 
The children of the soil will always return to their 
ditches and dung heaps, more especially those of the 
turbulent Irish race. ” 

“I could never look upon Mara as a common child. 
She had signs of refinement and breeding that bespoke 
quite other origin.” 

“ If it bespoke it, it also limited it to one source. Of 
that I am sure. Her father or her mother may have 
been of decent social standing, but not both father and 
mother. ” 

Miss Jane coloured painfully. It seemed to her 
that her elder sister was not only aggressive but coarse. 


34i 


In Agglestone House 

It did not occur to her that in that soured and 
embittered nature there lurked a savage jealousy. A 
jealousy of her nephew’s preference for his younger 
aunt. A still greater jealousy of the strange and 
lovely child who had played so important a part in his 
artistic success. Yet such was the case. Mara’s 
disappearance caused her less annoyance than Chris- 
topher’s concern in the matter, and Christopher’s 
letters to Jane. 

There was never a letter for her; only the always 
polite and respectful message; the unfailing courtesy 
which at once attracted and repelled her love. 

This gnawing jealousy had become a daily torture. 
In all her austere and reserved life she had never 
opened her heart to any living soul as she had invol- 
untarily opened it to Christopher. From the hour 
when he had stood smiling in the doorway, from the 
moment when she had heard the quaint half-foreign 
voice with its introduction — “Are you then my 
aunt? I am so pleased to see you” — she had suc- 
cumbed to an irresistible attraction. 

He had brought a new element of life into her mode 
of living; he had stirred the dead ashes of selfishness 
into some warmth of affection. She had been proud 
too of his talents; his charm of manner, his gay 
good-humour. All that meant himself, and might for 
aught she knew have also meant that brother whose 
life’s history lay there in a closed drawer; shut away 
with a child’s little shoe, and a schoolboy’s letters. 

Her glance turned from her sister’s painful blush to 
the hand that rested on the table. Something had 
fallen from the letter. An enclosure. With a faint 
hope that it might be intended for her she demanded 
sharply: “What is that you are concealing, Jane?” 


342 


The Rubbish Heap 

“I am not concealing it,” stammered the timid lit- 
tle spinster. ‘'I . . . I was going to tell you. Chris- 
topher has asked me to do something for him. It will 
mean my leaving you for the best part of the day.” 

“Indeed?” The tone was acrimonious as well as 
interrogative. 

“ Yes, ” went on her sister, “ I shall have to go to the 
island. There is some work there which Christopher 
ought to have sent off. He asks me to do it for him. ” 

“The island — where Mr. Dax lives?” 

“Yes, Augusta. I can get a boat from the Quay. 
It is not far. I ... I suppose you would not care to 
come also?” 

“I!” Miss Augusta’s face crimsoned with agitation. 

‘ ‘ Did you ever know me do anything so undignified as 
to cross this harbour in a common rowing-boat? In 
fact I strongly disapprove of your doing so, Jane. 
But, of course, I am learning day by day that my 
wishes or my approval have no effect upon you. 
There was a time — ” She pushed her plate and cup 
together with nervous fingers. 

“You are right, Augusta, there was a time when I 
accepted your view of everything, and obeyed you as 
I would have obeyed my mother. But that time is 
over now.” Miss Jane rose from the table, ruffled, 
trembling, but decided. Y/hat Christopher wished 
should be done in spite of any opposition. 

Miss Augusta stared at this recalcitrant rebel with 
cold astonishment. 

“I — I don’t understand you, Jane.” 

“No, Augusta; I am afraid you do not. You have 
always expected me to be an echo of yourself. To 
have no will, or thought that was independent of the 
narrow groove laid down for both our lives. But thos'e 


In Agglestone House 343 

days are over. I have begun to live; to look out on 
life instead of being afraid of it. ” 

“You have been reading some of those terrible 
emancipated books!” exclaimed Miss Augusta. 

“I have been reading a page of human history,” 
said Miss Jane. * ‘ It has taught me to be less severe on 
human frailty. Love opened my eyes and my heart 
and they will remain open now, thank God. ” 

“Love!” gasped Miss Augusta. 

“My love for Christopher, and for Mara. The 
sense of youth and hope they brought to me. Some- 
thing you had never let me realize. Something that 
might have died in sterile loneliness but for them.” 
“Jane!” 

“Let me speak at last, Augusta. I have waited 
long enough. ” 

“I think you are mad!” 

“No, Augusta, I am not mad. I am very sane. 
And I repeat that I owe even that to Christopher and 
to Mara. You never sympathized with him. You 
despised her, and showed it always. Perhaps because 
they were both so different from ourselves. But I 
loved them both; I shall always love them. And 
though I stay here, and life goes on as it has always 
gone, I want you to recognize that I am not the down- 
trodden silly creature I used to be ! Agglestone House 
is not the centre of the universe; and you are not the 
only person in the world whose opinion is to be con- 
sidered. ” 

“I . . . I . . . never heard anything like this!” 
stammered Miss Augusta, “ It is outrageous ! ’ * 

“No,” said Miss Jane, as she turned to the door. 
“ It is only — courageous. Good morning, Augusta. I 
am going to Christopher’s island.” 


SCENE XX 


The Lone Isle. Noon of the Same Day. 

Chawley is lying on the lawn before the house 
smoking a pipe, and enjoying the sunshine. He has 
the place to himself. There seems no particular call 
to do anything special, and he is doing it very 
effectively. 


Action in the Scene 

Chawley was “monarch of all he surveyed. ” For 
long he had enjoyed that position. It had come with 
the suddenness of all great changes, and been wel- 
comed accordingly. The situation contented him so 
well he forbore to question its possible continuation. 

The “girl” had gone. The “painter chap” had 
gone. His master had gone. That — had been the 
most surprising incident of all. Yet even to that he 
was reconciled. 

Some day, no doubt, they would all return, destroy- 
ing peace, and upsetting things generally, but for the 
temporary respite he was deeply thankful. 

“Two old ancient bachelor men, that’s what we 
were, and peaceable and content. And so it would ha’ 
lasted, but there — I don’t b’lieve there’s a place on 
earth where a woman won’t come pokin’ her head in, 
344 


The Lone Isle 345 

if only she hears there’s a man to be found in it — 
drat ’em!” 

So ran his reflections. A sense of drowsy content 
was his. The dog, now old and harmless, lay basking 
a few yards off. The clucking of some energetic hen, 
the faint low of a cow to her calf, alone broke the still- 
ness. 

“No call to cook vittals; no washin’ up.” He 
chuckled contentedly. The cider cask had been 
recently replenished. The hens were “laying fine.” 
Truly life seemed exceedingly good on that summer 
morning. And then, of course, came interruption. 
A sound of shipped oars, the grating noise of a boat’s 
arrival. A voice hailing him from the water. 

“Hi! old sleepy head! Come, lend a hand to my 
passenger!” 

Outraged and indignant, Chawley slowly brought 
his prostrate form into a position of inspection. He 
saw a small boat lying beyond the landing-place which 
was occupied by the electric launch, and not, appar- 
ently, available for landing purposes. 

“Passenger,” he muttered, rising to his feet, and 
glowering savagely at the visitor who was, as yet, 
only a distant intruder. “I’m dommed if it ain’t 
another femayle!” 

He made no effort at advancing. Only stood 
doggedly there, and watched the rocking boat which 
the youthful rower was endeavouring to bring into 
a stationary position. The passenger seemed very 
nervous. She begged him to sit down again, and wait 
until the islander should come to their assistance. 
She also expressed herself as opposed to the idea of 
clambering from the boat to the launch, and so on to 
the landing-stage. 


346 


The Rubbish Heap 

Chawley noted her difficulty and resolved on a 
neutral attitude. 

“I dunno who you be,” he shouted. “But there 
b’aint no one at home, so you’d best go back to where 
you come from. ” 

The passenger said something to her pilot, who 
promptly responded. 

“The lady knows that, but she’s a-goin’ to land all 
the same. ” 

Chawley felt that the case was desperate, but he 
could frame no method of tackling it. He therefore 
seated himself again and left the matter in the hands 
of those whom it most concerned. 

The passenger held counsel with the sturdy young 
oarsman who had rowed her thither. “I could ’eave 
you up, ma’am, if you’d like to try, ” he suggested. 

The lady shuddered. Maidenly and inherited 
prejudices stood in the way of accepting the obliging 
offer. “Isn’t there any other place where we could 
effect a landing ? ’ ’ she asked nervously. “ It is strange 
that that man is so disobliging. ” 

“Oh! he’s a real old tartar,” opined the youth, who 
hailed from Prawle Port, and knew something of the 
traditions of the Lone Isle. “Well, if you like’m, I’ll 
row round a bit, and see what can be done!” 

Chawley noted that the oars were resumed, and the 
boat slowly backed from its position. Delighted at 
the success of his opposition he slid carefully down 
on the grass once more, and resumed his pipe and his 
meditations. 

“A strange femayle — what would she be a-comin’ 
’ere for? In the paintin’ line maybe, tho’ she weren’t 
much to look at. ” 

Peace again descended. He drifted back into the 


The Lone Isle 


347 


somnolent condition of the unemployed. But it 
seemed to him that his eyes had scarcely closed when 
he was again startled by voices. Once more he sat up. 
His suspicions were verified. The “femayle” had 
effected a landing somehow. She was crossing the 
lawn at another point, and coming towards him- 
self. 

From under scowling brows he watched her. A sort 
of deprecating gentleness in her look and manner 
warned him against a too friendly attitude. 

“ Good morning, ” she said. “ I know your master 
has not returned yet, but I have come over to do 
something for him. Here is a letter for you. ” 

She gave it into an unwilling hand by which it was 
thrust into a grimy pocket. Seeing it was not to be 
read in her presence the lady asked: “Can I go into 
the house?” 

“It’s there — plain enuff, ” growled Chawley. “If 
you turn round you’ll see it.” 

She was a very inoffensive-looking visitor. Middle- 
aged, with delicate colouring and mild blue eyes. 

“That — isn’t quite what I mean,” she said. “I 
want to go into the rooms, at least the sitting-room, 
and look for something. ” 

His scowling glance startled her. 

“I can’t be lettin’ any traypsing femayle over the 
premises, when the master’s away. How do I know 
but that it’s them curiosities an’ chaney you’re 
after?” 

“ My good man ! ” gasped the lady. “ Do you know 
who I am?” 

“ I doan’t know, an’ I doan’t care. There’s none to 
gainsay me ’ere, an’ a mort o’ vallyables in the place, 
I’m told. ” 


34 » 


The Rubbish Heap 

“I am Miss Agglestone from Prawle yonder; the 
aunt of Mr. Christopher, your master’s pupil. ” 

“So you says. ” 

Miss Jane (it was no other) looked despairingly 
round. What a terrible ogre she had encountered in 
this first dash for liberty. 

“Why should you doubt my word ? ” she asked, with 
dignity. “I am a friend of your master’s, and I am 
sure he would be very much annoyed if he knew you 
were so rude to me. ” 

Chawley meditated over this idea. “If you’re a 
friend maybe you know why he went off so sudden, 
and where does he be — present time?” 

“He is in Ireland,” she said. “Mr. Christopher is 
with him. ” 

“Be’s the master cornin’ back soon?” 

“I don’t know. He has been ill, so my nephew 
tells me. They are staying on till he is stronger. ” 

“I doubt he’s sorry he ever left here. No sense in 
rushing off to furrin’ countries. Sarves him right 
if he’s ill, as consequence.” 

Miss Jane thought that Marmaduke Dax’s choice of 
servitor was singularly unfortunate. A more cross- 
grained surly soul she could not imagine. 

“Well, now that you know who I am, I hope you 
will let me see over this wonderful bungalow of which 
my nephew has spoken so often? ” she said. 

“Seein’ he’s your newy, and was here most days 
when he wasn’t in furrin’ parts, why didn’t you ever 
come across in the launch as he used to do, he and 
M’riar?” 

“I — I never thought of it. Besides he came to 
work, and I should have disturbed him. ” 

“Ay; femayles is always disturbing more or less,” 


The Lone Isle 


349 


growled the old celibate. “We thought we’d done ’em 
when we settled ’ere, but first that young M’riar got 
her nose in, and now you comes along. Shouldn’t 
wonder if a mort o’ them hussies over Prawle way took 
to callin’ in same as you — drat ’em!” 

“Why do you dislike women so much?” asked the 
gentle spinster diffidently. 

“No use for ’em; never ’ad,” was the laconic re- 
sponse. “But look ’ere, I don’t want to be jawin’ away 
all the mornin’. Hadn’t you better go up them 
wooden steps and do what you’ve come to do?” 

“ Do I go through the verandah?” asked Miss Jane. 

“You does; if you goes at all.” 

“Was it there my nephew used to work?” 

“You’ve done nowt but ask questions! I s’pose he 
did. ’Pended on the light. I know it were usually 
mussed somethin’ shockin’.” 

He began to shuffle towards the house leaving the 
unwelcome visitor in a state of indecision as to whether 
he meant her to follow him. She evolved the sudden 
courage of desperation and accepted the hint. 

“Could you — would you be kind enough to give 
the boatman some lunch?” she asked of a recalcitrant 
back. 

Chawley halted; turned his head. “Lunch? Vit- 
tals? There b’aint nothing ’ere.” 

“Not bread and cheese?” suggested Miss Jane. 
“Surely you have something to eat for yourself?” 

“For myself — maybe I have. That’s not sayin’ 
it’s enuff for other people as was never asked, nor ever 
wanted. ” 

“ I would pay you, ” she said eagerly. “ Pray don’t 
think I want to take advantage of your — hospitality. ” 

“Pay me?” He wheeled quickly round; avarice 


35°' _The Rubbish Heap 

lending a more genial expression to his wrinkled 
visage. “How much? say bread and cheese and 
cider; an egg or two, if it’s worth while?” 

“Will half-a-crown do?” asked Miss Jane timidly, 
as she drew out her purse. 

His eyes glistened. “ For the two of you ? ” 

“ Oh no, thank you. I — I’ve had some lunch, ” she 
answered mendaciously. Chawley as Ganymede did 
not commend himself to her fastidious tastes. “Just 
■ — for the boy. He’s in the boat. I told him I might 
be here for an hour. ” 

She proffered the half-crown. Chawley seized it 
with avidity. 

“I’ll bring it him,” he agreed. “And if you go up 
them steps to the verandy, you’ll find the window 
on the latch. That’s the room. Most things I’ve 
covered up, but them walls holds enuff for a 
mowseum. ” 

He went off at a double trot, and Miss Jane obeying 
his directions found herself on the verandah. The 
easels were still there. The picture of The Little 
Mermaid greeted her from its vantage point of north 
light. She gave a little gasp of surprise. It was so 
exquisite a thing. It seemed alive with Mara’s beauty 
and the sorrow of Mara’s wistful eyes. 

“I suppose that is the study for the Fairy Tale 
illustrations?” she said to herself. “I must look for 
the others. ” 

Her eyes wandered from place to place, taking in the 
beauty without and within. No wonder Christopher 
had raved about this open-air studio. No wonder 
that Marmaduke Dax had found its beauty a con- 
solation for his solitude. 

Her glance turned to the French window. The 


The Lone Isle 


35i 


inside blind was drawn, and the door closed. She 
tried the handle. It turned, and she stepped into the 
room. 

The Scene Changes to the Interior of the Bungalow 

A great deal of the furniture was covered with dust- 
sheets, provided by Mara, and utilized by Chawley 
as a saving of labour. But the walls and bookshelves 
offered her interest enough. What treasures the 
recluse had collected, and how beautiful some of the 
pictures were. They represented much of his earlier 
work, either as studies, or engravings. She could 
judge now what an artist had been lost to the world by 
his sudden abdication of the position he had achieved. 

Why had he made this sacrifice ? What compulsion 
had been strong enough to turn him from the high 
road of Fame to this solitude of unsociability ? She 
wondered and puzzled, even as Christopher had done. 
The interest she had felt in the man intensified the 
admiration inspired by his work. “I thought Chris- 
topher’s painting wonderful, but this is far finer; more 
distinctive. ” 

She had almost forgotten her errand in her tour of 
inspection, but the shape of the bureau under its dust 
sheet recalled her. She lifted the covering and tried 
the drawer as directed. It opened and she saw the 
coloured cardboard sketches lying there. She took 
them out one by one, and put them in an envelope. 
Then she closed the drawer, and let the sheet fall over 
it. 

Her eyes fell upon a door at the further end of the 
room. Wondering if it led to yet another treasure- 
chamber she tried the handle. It opened into a bed- 


352 


The Rubbish Heap 

room, sheeted and covered in similar fashion to the one 
she was in. The long French window opened to the 
verandah, and the view was the same. A bashful 
glance sufficed for this bachelor apartment, but a 
further door again appealed to feminine curiosity. 
That too offered no resistance. It revealed a small 
dressing-room, containing a bath. It was also a 
place of many cupboards, some of which showed 
clothes and boots and various paraphernalia through 
doors ajar. 

Yet another door of this room tempted further 
progress. But this was locked. 

Being the first resistance she had encountered, it 
was naturally the Bluebeard’s cupboard of mystery. 
Miss Jane contemplated it for a moment and asked 
herself why it should be the only place that its owner 
thought fit to secure. The keyhole was set midway 
in the door, in a position higher than is usual. Also the 
aperture was somewhat larger. 

| A sudden impulse suggested “peep. ” With a blush 
at her own temerity she applied an eye to that key- 
hole. Then she gave a little start, and stood back. 

“Why — it’s Christopher’s picture ! — The Fee of the 
.Mountains ! How on earth did it come there ?" 

No wonder she was astonished, for the sale of the 
picture had been triumphantly announced by the boy, 
after its acceptance and exhibition in the Academy. 
Was Marmaduke Dax the purchaser? If so why had 
he hidden the painting away? 

Not being very quick-witted Miss Jane’s conjec- 
tures were of a somewhat confused order. The dis- 
covery was not pleasing. If Dax had purchased the 
picture in order to please the young artist he yet must 
have done it secretly, and hidden it here where no eye 


The Lone Isle 


353 


but his own should see it. Was it to please Christopher 
or encourage him that he had acted in this fashion? 

“ I can’t ask, and I shall never know, ” she muttered 
tragically. For she had rejoiced in the boy’s first 
triumph as enthusiastically as himself and after all — 
there had been no triumph. It was not a genuine 
sale, and the purchaser had hidden it away as if it was 
unworthy of a place on his walls ! 

Sorely perplexed was her simple soul. Christopher 
had ranked this picture as his best work, and Marma- 
duke Dax had agreed with him. Her present dis- 
covery was a blow to her faith in the cher maitre, whom 
her nephew so revered. It seemed cruel to have 
allowed the boy to believe in a success and a purchaser 
when neither existed as they had been said to exist. 

Curiosity had resulted in a terrible discovery. She 
felt that the beauty of the place and the house and her 
own glimpse of liberty were all spoilt. She would 
have to bear the burden of this secret. She would 
have to treat Marmaduke Dax with the same friendli- 
ness and Christopher with the same belief, and all the 
time the horrid discovery of this eventful morning 
would lie between them. Her frank simple soul 
suffered a severe shock. She faced her first disil- 
lusion ; it meant a total overthrow of the delicate fab- 
ric of newly-woven ideals ; it chilled the ardour of her 
faith in man once more. Perhaps Augusta had been 
right in safe-guarding herself and her sister from the 
chances of such discoveries. Perhaps the world of 
men did represent only treachery and disappointment. 
Perhaps 

A harsh voice broke over the silence of the room and 
the busy conjecturing of her brain. 

“ I’d like to know what you’re doin’ in the master’s 


23 


354 


The Rubbish Heap 

private room? I didn’t go for to say you might ven- 
ture in here. If anything’s lost or missin,’ mind ye 
I’m not responsible. ” 

Miss Jane started violently. The coarse suggestion 
w as like a lash to her delicate sensibilities. 

“I — I’m very sorry. I just went on; the rooms 
were all open. You didn’t say ” 

“No, I didn’t say. I knaw better than to caution 
femayles, but tho’ I’m not one to judge folk wrong- 
fully I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say — your- 
self? Pry in’ and peerin’ through doors and cupboards 
as could have no possible interest for any one but him 
as used ’em. And you — not a married woman even !” 

Poor Miss Jane grew scarlet to her very temples. 
Christopher had never warned her of this ill-mannered 
ogre. He had only spoken of a “type.” But if this 
was the sort of type then she pitied Marmaduke Dax 
with all her heart. To have to live with such a boor — 
at once so aggressive and suspicious — it seemed 
awful. 

“Perhaps you don’t mean to be rude,” she said at 
last. ‘ ‘ But certainly your manners need improvement. 
I have told you that Mr. Dax is a friend, and that I 
came here with his permission. I had to fetch the 
sketches that my nephew painted, and delayed 
sending. ” 

She showed the large square envelope in her hand. 
“I don’t know what further credentials you want, 
but I shall certainly tell your master how very rude 
you’ve been.” 

“Doan’t care if you does,” said the imperturbable 
misanthrope. “He won’t be puttin’ your opinions 
against my faithful services and labour. As far as that 
goes you may save your breath. Anyhow the hour’s 


The Lone Isle 


355 


up. The lad who rowed ye here said ’twas by time he 
was covenanted for. You knaw best what sort o' 
bargain you made, but if 'twas time, then he'll gain- 
say you, come to settlin’ up. ” 

Miss Jane was by now so bewildered that she half- 
repented of her venturesome exploit. Mustering all 
the dignity of which she was capable she marched 
to the door but as Chawley stood centre-ways in 
the opening she could not pass. A curious leering 
glance for which cider and the hot sun were responsible 
added to her alarm. 

“ Kindly allow me to pass,” she said, hoping her 
voice was less tremulous than her person. 

“You pays toll then,” said this self-constituted 
guardian of the peace. “Out of bounds you be, an’ 
no lawful impediment as to why or wherefore. Say — 
another half-crown, an’ no more about it. I’ve got a 
memory for forgettin’ what isn’t worth rememberin’. ” 

“Oh here, here!” exclaimed Miss Jane thrusting 
the demanded coin into an outstretched hand. “I 
had intended giving it to you for taking up your time. 
Now — may I pass?” 

“Well, I’ve no objection. But I’d like to say that 
further visits isn’t desirable. Ancient bachelor men 
we be as lives ’ere, and only ask for peace and no 
intrudin’ femayles. ” 

“I hope I may never need to come here again,” 
said Miss Jane with dignity. 

“Well, you ba’aint one o’ the dangerous sort, but 
you’re a bit too young for safety. For my part I 
doan’t trust a blue eye in a woman, whether she’s 
young, or a bitter weed. ” 

And with that doubtful compliment to her sex and 
appearance Miss Jane escaped at last. 


35<5 


The Rubbish Heap 

She had subject enough for thought as the little 
boat wound its way through shallows and currents, and 
on towards the beautiful wide estuary beyond. 

But disturbed as she was by the day’s discovery 
she yet was conscious of a certain exhilaration. Time 
was when the facing of such an ogre as Chawley would 
have been too terrifying to adventure. Now, she had 
not only adventured but come out triumphant. Fur- 
thermore she assured herself that she had not let 
him perceive how very much alarmed she had been. 

In that respect, however, she wronged the astute 
watch-dog whose selfish interests were bound up 
in his master’s continued isolation. Well enough 
the old villain knew he had frightened the timorous 
visitor. In a way too he feared reprisals if his mas- 
ter should ever hear of it. But long indifference 
to opinions had rendered him hide-bound to such 
trivialities. 

‘‘The master couldn’t do without me. I’m safe 
enough. Besides wasn’t our bargain that we’d keep 
the place to ourselves, and no admittance to femayles 
under any sort o’ purtences or provocations!” 


SCENE XXI 


Interior of Agglestone House. Evening 
The Action in the Scene. 

Miss Jane arrived home about six o’clock and went 
at once to her room. 

She was still in the fluttered and nervous condi- 
tion occasioned by Chawley’s rudeness, by the sense 
of adventure, and by the youthful Prawlite’s over- 
charges. But, apart from the nervousness, she was 
conscious of a certain exhilaration. She had at least 
faced two situations on her own initiative. She had 
spoken her mind to her formidable sister, and she had 
fulfilled Christopher’s mission in the face of much 
difficulty. As she mounted the stairs to her own 
bedroom she felt that life had suddenly changed. It 
had shown possibilities of liberty, and the excitements 
arising therefrom. 

As she removed her coat and hat, and changed her 
short tailor skirt for the semi-evening gown of custom, 
she was even conscious she felt young. That is to 
say young in the sense of anticipation and defiance. 
The awkward dumbness, the inexpressive faculties 
of her narrow life were suddenly pierced by shafts of 
illumination. 

Perhaps she had found her soul. In any case she 
357 


358 


The Rubbish Heap 

recognised a new something that was still herself, 
although not the same self she had known hitherto. 

The envelope containing Christopher’s sketches lay- 
on the dressing-table. They had yet to be packed 
and addressed, and registered for safety. “I really 
think I will take them into Stourborough tomorrow, ” 
she thought. “I can go by tram. It will be quite 
amusing. Augusta has never allowed me to enter a 
tram-car. She thinks it would be undignified. And 
those fat old horses do crawl so, and Jennings is 
getting so fat and lazy. Yes, I shall go by tram. 
It’s quite a long time since I’ve been to the town.” 

She finished dressing; having arranged her hair in 
the new way ; Christopher’s way. She thought of him 
as she looked at herself. “The dear boy! How I 
miss him. It is to him I owe any pleasure I have 
known. This feeling of being awake and interested 
in things outside just our own house and our narrow 
lives. ” 

The sound of the dinner-bell reminded her it was 
seven o’clock, and that she had now to face her sister 
after the outburst of that eventful morning. Despite 
her new-born courage she was conscious of a little 
sinking of heart, a little quickening of pulse. How 
would Augusta meet her? 

She opened her door and crossed the landing. Then 
paused before another door, opened it and looked in. 

The little white room lay before her, neat and spot- 
less as of old ; kept still as she had arranged it for any 
chance visit of Mara’s. Tears sprang to her eyes as 
she looked at it. “Oh! where is she? Why did she 
go off like that? ” she thought. “ If she had only come 
to me, spoken to me! But, perhaps, she never realized 


In Agglestone House 359 

that I loved her so much. It was so difficult for me to 
express any deep feeling. ” 

With a sigh she closed the door, and went on down 
to the dining-room. Stiff and cold her sister faced 
her, standing at the head of the table, with that air of 
waiting for a tardy arrival which always annoyed her 
sister. 

“The clock has only just struck seven, ” she ob- 
served. 

Miss Augusta merely seated herself, and made a 
gesture to Tomlinson to commence his duties. He 
handed the soup and poured out a glass of sherry for 
each of his mistresses. The sound of clinking spoons 
alone broke the frigid atmosphere of silence. 

Miss Augusta had had a whole solitary day in which 
to nurse a grievance and her anger, like jealousy, had 
somewhat “grown by what it fed on.” The second 
course passed in the same unresponsive fashion. 
With the joint (which Miss Augusta still carved on the 
table), Miss Jane timidly expressed that it had been a 
very fine day. 

“I am glad to hear it. I — have not been out to 
enjoy it, ” was the response. 

“Oh — what a pity! It is really summer at last. 
The fruit trees are all out in blossom, and the air — it 
was delicious. ” 

“Delicious,” observed Miss Augusta severely, “is 
an adjective more appropriately applied to what one 
tastes or senses. I regret, Jane, to notice that you are 
adopting the slipshod modern fashion of qualifying 
your subjects. For instance ‘ awfully nice,’ ‘ awfully 
good.’ The meaning of awful, as I interpret it, is 
significant of fear or terror. It is absolutely wrong 
to apply it as in the examples I have given you. ” 


360 


The Rubbish Heap 

“But, dear Augusta, language and expressions move 
with the times. Look how we spoke a century, or 
even half a century ago, and the way we speak now? ” 

“I — of course, am beginning to understand that you 
are advancing with those times, and that I — am 
relegated to past traditions. Still, a correct method of 
speaking was always insisted upon by our dear Papa. 
I, at least, have not forgotten him, or his wishes.’* 

“I hope I have not — either; but I certainly think 

>> 

Miss Augusta’s glance of pained surprise checked 
her sister once more. 

“Not ‘I certainly think,’ Jane. Should it not be 
'I think certainly’? Excuse my interruption but I 
was taught grammar very carefully, and I believe the 
adverb should follow, not precede the verb.” 

“ It sounds horrid, ” said Miss Jane. “Just like the 
fuss about ‘split infinitives.’ I should always split 
my infinitives if I wanted to. I consider that ‘to 
greatly love’ sounds a thousand times better than 
‘to love greatly. ’ ” 

A discreet cough from Tomlinson served to remind 
her of potatoes and cauliflower awaiting her choice. 
She made a selection and returned to her dinner. 

She wondered whether Augusta was at all curious 
about her long absence. She was determined to say 
nothing on the subject unless directly questioned. 
The meal proceeded in uncomfortable silence broken 
only by occasional remarks from Miss Jane. More 
than ever did she miss Christopher. He was the only 
one in the house whom Miss Augusta could never 
quell. If he offended her, he ignored the offence and 
her wrath with equal composure. 

At last dessert was put on the table, and Tomlinson 


In Agglestone House 361 

withdrew. Then after a brief silence Miss Augusta 
remarked — “Judging from your long absence, Jane, 
I should suppose that this — island, as you call it, is 
situated at some distance from the harbour?’' 

“Yes, it is,” answered Miss Jane. “The navi- 
gable stream winds about in a most extraordinary 
manner. It took nearly three hours to get back. 
The boy said it was on account of the tide being so 
strong against us. But the little island was lovely. 
I don’t wonder Christopher was so fond of it. ” 

Miss Augusta's face looked stonily indifferent as 
she peeled an apple. Miss Jane played with a few 
grapes, and wondered if she should go on talking or 
allow herself to be “sent to Coventry” in her sister’s 
usual chilling fashion. 

“I — I suppose no letter, or telegram, has come from 
him to-day?” she said at last. 

“ If they had, you would have received them on your 
return, ” said Miss Augusta. “I am not in the habit 
of tampering with your correspondence. ” 

“Of course not. I never suggested such a thing.” 

“Then your question was perfectly needless.” 

Miss Jane found herself wishing that her sister and 
Chawley could spend a day in each other’s company. 
Their mutual amiability would be sorely taxed. 

“I suppose you are offended with me still for what 
I said this morning?” she burst out suddenly. “It 
really is hard, Augusta, that at our age we should spar 
and sulk like children. Of course it all comes from 
leading such narrow lives. If we had gone out into 
the world and associated with other people, we might 
have acquired broader views of things ; at least become 
more charitable. ” 

Miss Augusta lifted her eyes from her dessert plate 


362 


The Rubbish Heap 

and fixed them on her sister with the “stony glare” 
which used to intimidate, but now only annoyed 
her. 

“I am learning many things of which I was igno- 
rant, ” she said. “Among others that I cannot speak 
modern English, and have lived a narrow and unchar- 
itable life. Of course I might refer you to the vicar 
who knows well what charities I have supported in the 
parish for many years. Also there are subscription 
lists to hospitals in which my name may be found. 
Apart from these and dealing with personal matters, 
I have never informed you that I have made a hand- 
some allowance to our nephew. He is under the im- 
pression that the securities he handed over to me were 
of considerable value. On the contrary they produced 
something under a hundred pounds. I have never 
acquainted him with this fact. I did not desire to 
cripple his independence. I trust, therefore, that you 
will be equally reticent in the matter. The boy turned 
out so much better than I expected that I have never 
regretted allowing him to remain under our roof. ” 

“I think he has been splendid from first to last!” 
exclaimed Miss Jane. “Clever, persevering; a de- 
lightful companion. And, after all, this must have 
been a dull sort of home after Paris. Yet he never 
complained. ” 

“Complained?” Miss Augusta’s voice took a note 
of added sharpness. “And pray why should he 
complain? Between beggary and starvation and 
the home I gave him there was an appreciable 
difference. You may be sure he recognized that. 
Not many people would have allowed their house 
to be turned upside down for whims and models 
and queer fancies. Yet I — permitted these things 


3 63 


In Agglestone House 

— uncharitable as I appear. But I have cause to 
regret my want of firmness, since I see to what it has 
led. Insubordination and scandal!” 

“Scandal, Augusta?” 

“What else is this business of Mara’s flight? I 
suppose all the town is talking of it. For aught I know 
they may be blaming Christopher. The two were 
always together. ” 

“Augusta! I am ashamed of you. To Christopher, 
Mara has never been anything but a child. You 
know how indignant he was when you hinted at 
possible gossip. ” 

“That proves nothing. Why has she made a 
mystery of her departure? There was no reason to 
hide it, or to go secretly. She might at least have 
confided in you. Certainly you made fuss enough 
about her — once. ” 

Miss Jane’s gentle eyes filled with tears. It hurt 
her to the heart to listen to such words ; the construc- 
tion put upon an impulsive and possibly quite inno- 
cent action. However, further words were rendered 
unnecessary for Miss Augusta snapped down her 
last piece of apple, rose, and murmured, “For what we 
have received,” and left the room. True to long 
established precedent her sister meekly followed, 
wishing in her heart that it was possible to go to her 
own bedroom, and not have to put in two weary, 
dreary hours more of her sister’s company. 

An atmosphere of censure still hovered around Miss 
Augusta. She established herself on the couch and 
produced her Patience cards and commenced to deal. 
This was a well-known signal of displeasure, and 
so Miss Jane did not trouble to remark upon it. She 


364 


The Rubbish Heap 

went to the piano, opened it, and began to play frag- 
ments of Mendelssohn and Schumann with a touch in 
which something of her own timid character predomi- 
nated. 

A harsh cough from her sister broke upon her own 
dreams of the Traumerei. 

‘‘Excuse me, Jane, but your playing disturbs me. 
I have made two mistakes in * Miss Milligan. ’ Would 
you kindly provide yourself with a book until it is 
time to retire?” 

Miss Jane rose from the piano and closed the lid. 

“If Christopher doesn’t return soon I shall do 
something desperate!” she said to herself. 

Then the thought came. Why stay here? Why 
bear it? Opportunities were escaping her; freedom 
lessening. All the good and possible things of life 
seemed to lie without, not within the narrow bound- 
aries of her home. Yet day for day, night for night, 
this circumscribed routine had to be followed. Chris- 
topher had gone his way; Mara hers. Why not 
follow their example? 

Her experiment of today proved that her sister 
could not control her actions; only criticize or resent 
them. And what did her disapproval matter if she 
gained some degree of liberty? Christopher had 
given her John Stuart Mill and Herbert Spencer to 
read. The result had been a quickening of spirit, a 
recognition of her rights in womanhood and in individ- 
ual life. Very sudden had been its birth. Mara was 
the responsible agent. Grief and fear for the lonely 
child so suddenly lost to her. Her own ignorance 
of the brutal facts of life had only sharpened her 
terror of them. If aught happened to that defence- 
less creature how could she hold herself free of blame? 


In Agglestone House 365 

She should have safe-guarded her from peril; have 
won her confidence. 

“Why — I would have gone anywhere with her!” 
she told herself. “If it was for Ireland and her con- 
vent she was grieving, I would have taken her there. 
But she was afraid to trust me, and God knows 
what has happened to her!” 

Distraught by her own imaginings she glanced round 
the ugly familiar room. Augusta was still engrossed 
with her game. The hands of the gilt ormulu time-piece 
had scarcely seemed to move. It was not nine o’clock. 
With an impatient sigh she turned to her sister. 

“ If you will excuse me, Augusta, I will go up to the 
studio. I told you I had a little commission from 
Christopher. ” 

“Pray do not let me detain you, ” said Miss Augusta 
carefully laying down an inadvertent knave. “Of 
course Christopher’s wishes are of paramount import- 
ance. ” 

“Then I will say good-night.” 

The frosty kiss that followed was significant of 
family etiquette, but lacking in any pretence of affec- 
tion. Then Miss Jane went quietly out of the room. 
As she closed the door Tomlinson turned from the front 
door, having just answered the postman’s knock. He 
put the letter on a silver waiter and approached. 

“From Christopher!” she cried eagerly, and 
seized it as a girl might seize a love letter. “Oh,” 
she said, turning to the staid functionary, “I am go- 
ing up to the studio. Will you light the lamp?” 

“Yes, miss,” said Tomlinson, who was quite aware 
that “something was up ” between his two ladies. On 
the whole he hoped that Miss Jane had got the best of 
it, for the iron rule of his ostensible mistress was apt to 


366 


The Rubbish Heap 

be irksome at times. Only the fact that it was a good 
place and an easy one enabled him to put up with 
‘‘old maids’ ways,” as he contemptuously called them. 

He fetched the lamp from his pantry and preceded 
Miss Jane to the attic. It was always kept in order 
as Christopher’s coming and going were apt to be 
erratic. Besides Miss Jane spent a great portion of 
her time there, reading or studying the works on 
art and philosophy recommended by her nephew. 

Tomlinson set the lamp down on the table, and with 
pretence of adjusting blinds and curtains lingered in 
hopes of news. 

Miss Jane stood by the table and tore open the 
envelope with eager hands. The letter was long, and 
Tomlinson noticed that her delicate face flushed and 
paled as she read the fine clear writing. 

The letter was as follows — 

Dearest Little Jeanne: 

I am grieved to have to tell you that the cher maitre 
does not get better as I hoped. He is weak, and de- 
pressed, and something seems preying on his mind. 
This hotel too is very uncomfortable for an invalid. I 
should much prefer a lodging, only nothing of the sort 
seems suitable. Last night the cher maitre suggested if 
we could get a small house, ready furnished, and if you 
would come and housekeep for us? “ But that is an 
idea!” said I, with a vision of my dear helpful little 
Jeanne, and a petite maison meublee of our own in this 
lovely spot. There is a house — it belongs to the doctor 
— but he finds it too large, not being a married man. 
I said to myself, “ If Jeanne will come to us I will take 
that house.” You see, dear little one, there can be no 
news of Mara for weeks — perhaps, and here we must 


367 


In Agglestone House 

remain. The police have discovered at last that some- 
one answering her description did go off in one of the 
cargo boats for Ireland. I have learnt its name, but 
we are not sure yet what part of the Irish coast it will 
visit. Still, my mind is more at ease, for we must 
suppose that the child took it into her head to come 
back here, even as she went from here, and we are 
sure to find her. So set your mind at rest on that 
point, dear Jeanne. 

You may suppose that work is not possible to me, 
under these circumstances. Yet never has my mind 
been so attuned to work, nor nature so kind in her 
offerings. If the menage were only regulated what 
might I not accomplish! 

Dear Jeanne, I well know you are fearful of travel- 
ling, and timid of nature, but you may re-assure your- 
self, and there need be no danger. I suggest that the 
good Tomlinson take you to London, put }^ou in the 
train at Euston, and from that train you do but step 
on to the boat which is waiting. Go down to the com- 
fortable ladies’ cabin, and I will meet you at Kingstown 
in the morning. There you may rest and breakfast, 
and we shall then proceed to conclude our journey. 

The change, the liberty, will all be good for you. As 
for the great Augustine it is time she learnt that she 
cannot rule everyone — always. A little independence, 
dear Jeanne, will make you even sweeter and more 
adorable than you have ever been to your loving and 
graceless nephew — 

Christopher. 

P. S. I await with impatience your telegram of con- 
sent. Just say “ Yes,” and the date of arrival. Two 
anxious hearts greet you. 


C. 


368 


The Rubbish Heap 


“Tomlinson!” 

The staid butler almost started, so excited and 
imperative was the voice. 

‘‘Yes, miss!” 

“Tomlinson, I am going to Ireland ” J 

She stopped abruptly. 

“Yes, miss?” 

“You — don’t seem surprised?” 

“I am surprised, miss; but I hope I know my place 
better than to say what I feel.” 

“Oh — ” said Miss Jane doubtfully. “You feel — 
I mean do you feel that it is rather, rather ” 

“Unexpected, miss? Yes — a little* but when any 
one is going to do anything — unexpected, miss, it is 
better to do it sudden-like, same as going to the 
dentist’s, miss, or having an operation.” 

“But they are disagreeable necessities,” said Miss 

Jane. “Now this, I hope ” 

' “Yes, miss?” 

“I hope . . . will be a very pleasant change 
for me. My nephew is taking a furnished house 
in the town or village where he has been stay- 
ing, and he asks me to come over and manage it 
for him. ” 

“ I should say you would enjoy a trip to the h’Emer- 
ald Isle very much, miss. ” 

“I think I shall. But, Tomlinson, I want you to 
come up to London with me. It is so long since I 
have been there. We can take an afternoon train from 
here, and then go to Euston and catch the mail train 
at night. Mr. Christopher will meet me at Kings- 
town, so I shall be quite safe. ” 

“Um ...” Tomlinson looked contemplative. 
“You wouldn’t like me to see you to the steamer. 


In Agglestone House 369 

miss? A bit confusing for a lady alone, and you not 
having a maid either?” 

Miss Jane’s eyes returned to her letter. She read 
out Christopher’s directions. “You see, it seems 
quite easy. ” 

“Seems? Yes, miss. But I’d feel happier in my 
mind, so to say, if I could know I had seen you safe on 
to that boat at Holyhead. ” 

“Very well, Tomlinson. I’m not a great traveller, 
as you know, so I should like to feel someone was look- 
ing after me. And now — ” She paused and looked 
anxiously at Tomlinson, and he looked anxiously at her. 

“ Miss Augusta, you are thinking of, miss? I think 
I could manage her, so to say. Best thing is to act 
decisive. No time for argufying. If you’d take my 
advice, miss, say nothing tonight, but just pack your 
box. I’ll go out and send the telegram first thing 
in the morning, and order the fly for the station. I’ll 
tell Miss Augusta that you require me to go up to Lon- 
don . After that — miss ’ ’ 

His smile seemed to convey that the second Deluge 
might happen as a corollary of such events. 

Miss Jane, a little fluttered, but quite unusually 
determined, had made up her mind at once. Chris- 
topher needed her. Mara was safe. She could set 
out on the morrow on another adventure. 

How exciting life could be once one took the reins 
into one’s own hands, and let the steed of irresponsi- 
bility career at its own sweet will! 

She bade Tomlinson wait while she made up the 
packet of sketches and wrote out the telegram. Just 
then the clock struck the half-hour. Only half an 
hour since she had come upstairs. Truly life was 
becoming momentous ! 


24 


SCENE XXII 


On Irish Sea and Soil 
Action in the Scene 

Miss Jane emerged from the ladies’ saloon and the 
care of a friendly Irish stewardess. She was some- 
what limp and dishevelled, though the crossing had 
been a comparatively smooth one. However, when 
the friendly voice said, “You’ll be goin’ up on deck 
now, ma’am; ’tis just there we are,” she gladly 
assented. 

The woman helped her up the stairs and gave her 
her travelling bag and rug. Then she found herself 
gazing out at blue water and smiling sky in the fresh 
glory of the morning. 

She forgot her past discomfort. Forgot everything 
except that the world was very wonderful, and that 
for the first time in her life she was seeing a new 
country and new scenes without the tyrannical 
chaperonage of her sister. 

It seemed hardly credible, but it was true. She 
drank in the cool salt breath of the sea; she felt the 
delicious warmth of the sun; and she saw they were 
nearing the great Steamboat Quay with every’moment. 
Then suddenly a voice in her ear startled her so much 
that her bag slipped from her grasp. 

37o 


On Irish Sea and Soil 


37i 


“Good morning, Miss Jane. Not such a bad 
passage — considering. I hope you are feeling pretty 
well, miss?” 

It was Tomlinson. Tomlinson whom she had dis- 
missed at Holyhead, and who had bade her a respect- 
ful farewell as she descended to the ladies’ saloon. 

“Yes, miss; it’s me, miss. You see, I — well, I 
couldn’t make up my mind to let you go on alone. 
One never knows what may happen, miss. And so 
. . . well, I came along too. ” 

“But — Tomlinson!” she gasped, “what will my 
sister sa}^? You — you really shouldn’t ” 

“Oh, don’t you trouble your head about that , miss. 
I sent a wire to Miss Augusta saying I had accom- 
panied you to Ireland. If she takes the matter in bad 
part I can but accept her notice. But I have a feeling, 
miss, that you and Mr. Christopher will be all the 
better for someone to look after things, and settle the 
house, so to say. Allow me to take your bag, miss. 
We are just in, and . . . yes, there is Mr. Christopher. 
How pleasant it is to see him again, miss!” 

Poor bewildered Miss Jane could find no reply to all 
this explanation. She could only picture Augusta’s 
wrath, and wonder what she would do when she re- 
ceived Tomlinson’s wire ? But the next moment she 
was in Christopher’s embrace, and hearing Christo- 
pher’s greeting of the faithful servitor, and after that 
nothing seemed to matter very much. 

Christopher indeed treated Tomlinson’s escapade 
as a huge joke. He was not in the least in awe of his 
aunt Augusta, and only laughed at Jane’s fears on the 
subject. 

Their luggage was collected (Tomlinson, strange 
to say, having a small portmanteau as his own posses- 


372 


The Rubbish Heap 

sion), and they started for the hotel in an Irish car, 
much to Miss Jane’s alarm. But as no other vehicle 
was available she had to submit. Tomlinson and the 
luggage were relegated to another, and that solemn 
personage made his first acquaintance with an Irish 
jarvey. 

The Scene Changes 

Tomlinson was treated to some surprising yarns as 
they rattled along the dirty, badly paved streets, but 
as the language was somewhat unfamiliar, he listened, 
without showing any surprise. He had come prepared 
to treat the Irish as a “foreign nation”; the intention 
met with little discouragement. 

Christopher’s pleasure at seeing him was in itself 
an inducement to prosecute his travels a little further. 
When once his mistress and the two artists had 
settled down “ ong farmill ” as he expressed it, he 
would consider the idea of return. But a holiday in a 
strange country and amid entirely new surroundings 
appealed to him, even as it had appealed to Miss 
Jane. He too felt as if the kite of liberty was at 
last in full flight, and had no desire to haul it down 
to earth again. 

Christopher had ordered breakfast from the atten- 
tive Donovan, and Miss Jane felt all the better for tea 
and toast. Then her nephew insisted on her going to 
bed and trying to sleep until it was time to leave for 
the train. 

She obeyed him quite meekly though she felt sure 
she would not sleep, so excited and strange was her 
frame of mind. However, the comfortable bed and 
the reaction after the tossing and rolling of the boat 


On Irish Sea and Soil 


373 


had so soothing an effect that she lapsed into slumber 
without an effort. A knock at the door at last aroused 
her, and the chambermaid brought in some hot water 
and a message to say that the gentleman would expect 
her in half an hour. 

It was all very novel and exciting to such an 
unaccustomed traveller, and Miss Jane congratulated 
herself on the courage that had at last cut the leading 
strings of her life, and _set her feet on the path of 
liberty. 

When she came downstairs, refreshed and cheerful, 
Christopher met her. 

“You must have some lunch, dear Jeanne,” he 
said. “I have reserved a table in the coffee-room. 
Donovan (that is our waiter) will look after Tomlinson. 
Now, at last we can talk. ” 

He at least talked. He was brimful of explanations, 
events, suggestions. He seemed quite at ease on the 
subject of Mara. “It is that she intends to come 
here; we are sure that she will come. I have left 
instructions at the different ports. News must come 
to us soon. Figure to yourself her surprise when she 
finds all her friends to welcome her!” 

“And now tell me about Mr. Dax? You said he 
was ill?” 

“But yes, of a strange melancholy illness, attended 
by sleeplessness. I have called in a doctor. But a 
doctor! You shall see and hear him, my dear Jeanne. 
How he talks! But so amusing. That — I grant are 
all these people, though it seems to me they recognize 
it not for themselves. It is our good friend Katty 
Quirke, only more so. For in Ireland there are many 
forms of Irish, so to say. One sort will talk as they 
do here in Dublin. That is what one calls a ‘brogue 


374 


The Rubbish Heap 

to cut with a knife ’ ; others again, where we are in 
Galway, speak in quite another way. Accent and 
dialect are almost foreign to me. Then again, the 
ancient Irish language is very beautiful. It is some- 
thing like the language of Brittany, which I know. 
However, what is more to the point is the little men- 
age that we all make together. If the good Tomlinson 
would also look after us then of a truth we shall be 
quite happy. The house I have engaged, or rather 
Monsieur Dax has engaged, is small after the great 
house of Agglestone, but compact and clean. It has 
in itself a general sitting-room; another for meals; 
and some four or five bedrooms. A garden it has also, 
and a prospect most beautiful. I hope you will like it, 
dear Jeanne ?” 

“I shall like anything that you like, Christopher.’' 

He bent forward and kissed her hand in his quick 
impulsive way. 

“Was she much disturbed — the good Augustine? 
I — I almost feared she would not permit you to come. ” 

“I did not ask her permission. I simply said I was 
coming. ” 

Christopher’s eyes twinkled. “But see then, how 
brave we become, the little timid Jeanne ! How did it 
happen?’’ 

“It happened before your invitation . It began with 
my going to the island, as you desired. ” 

And briefly, yet with a certain dramatic power, the 
little lady related that episode. The flung-down 
gauntlet of her independence, the interview with 
Chawley, and then the climax of her decision to come 
over to Ireland and stay with him. Christopher 
listened with deep interest. 

“ It is all as it should be, ” he asserted. “Too long 


On Irish Sea and Soil 


375 


have you been the patient down-trodden Cendrillon. 
I am glad that day is over. Every human being has a 
right to freedom of thought and action. But Augus- 
tine, had she her way, would be the ruling spirit of 
all that are associated with her. Myself, I soon 
recognized that fact, and took up my position. It is 
well I did so. I feared, at first, I must depend on her 
for means to live, but happily I had sufficient money 
to allow of independence until the time when I could 
sell my work. Then . . . but what have you, my 
dear Jeanne? Your face — it is pale. Are you not 
well?” 

Miss Jane stammered some confused sentences as 
to the effects of the sea, and the excitement, and then 
accepted the offer of a petit verve to divert attention. 
In truth those words of Christopher’s had brought 
a sudden sense of guilt. She remembered her sister’s 
explanation of the allowance she made him; she 
remembered her discovery of the purchaser of his 
picture. He was ignorant of both facts, and she was 
self-bound to secrecy. Hitherto there had been no 
concealments between them, and the knowledge that 
now there was and must continue to be such conceal- 
ment made her horribly uncomfortable. 

She was glad that they had to hurry over the con- 
clusion of lunch, and that the continuance of the 
journey so diverted Christopher’s mind that no further 
allusion was made to affairs at Agglestone House, or its 
formidable mistress. 

It was in the so-called Hotel of the little town that 
Christopher and Marmaduke Dax were staying. The 
house, he explained to his aunt, would not be available 
for a day or two. But as Miss Jane was now in a 


376 


The Rubbish Heap 

state of mind to accept anything that chanced to her, 
she made no objection to the accommodation. Miss 
Augusta would have shuddered at the small dingy 
room, the by-no-means spotless curtains and bed 
covering. The cracked ware on the small washing- 
stand, the queer opaque glass which reflected a green 
and wondering visage. But everything was novel, 
and strange — and Irish. She had come to Ireland 
expecting difference. She certainly found it. 

But when she saw Marmaduke Dax again she was 
conscious of a sort of shock. He looked so ill, so 
strange, so melancholy that her gentle heart ached for 
him. He came down to dinner, which was very late 
owing to the usual unpunctuality of trains, and he 
seemed pleased to see her, but conversation showed 
itself as an effort, and he retired as soon as the meah 
was over. Christopher and Miss Jane had the 
drawing-room (so called) to themselves until the 
arrival of the doctor, who, it appeared came to 
the Hotel most evenings for a gossip and a smoke, 
and whose introduction set the seal upon the gentle 
spinster’s amazement at all things Irish. 

“I’m sorry that my house isn’t quite in order for 
you, ” he said, beaming down upon the quiet little lady 
with humorous grey eyes. “It’s not my fault I assure 
you. I have the misfortune to possess a housekeeper 
who is always a day behind yesterday in anything she 
does. I gave her two extra days ahead for my tenants 
to be taking possession, but — well, she’s there 
still.” 

“Perhaps she could stay on with us?” suggested 
Miss Jane. “We shall need servants. ” 

Christopher laughed suddenly. “I have seen the 
good lady, ” he said. “ I cannot quite picture the ser- 


On Irish Sea and Soil 


377 

vants’ hall that would contain Tomlinson and herself! 
Can you, Doctor Boyle?” 

“Who is — Tomlinson?” asked the Doctor. 

“A staid family butler. English of the most Eng- 
lish, and your good housekeeper is, I should say, Irish 
of the most Irish. ” 

“She has her good qualities,” said Doctor Boyle , 1 
genially. “But I’d hardly like to ask an English 
lady to put in the time of waiting that would be neces- 
sary to discover them. However, if you are provided 
with a man servant that simplifies matters. I’ll tell 
her to get off with herself tomorrow, and see what’ll 
happen. ” 

“But I’m afraid it will be very inconvenient for you 
to give up your house to us?” said Miss Jane. 

His brilliant smile swept over her with the warmth 
of sunshine. 

“And would an Irishman count it any sort of incon- 
venience to be obliging a lady ? ” he said. “I’m only a 
single man, and can put myself up anywhere. Besides 
my surgery is in the town, not in the house, so it will 
be no harm for me to be living a bit nearer to it. 
And my patient isn’t very comfortable here. The 
other house is away out of the town, better air and 
a fine garden. He likes gardening, he tells me, so 
that’ll cheer him up. It takes a man and a boy to. 
keep the place in order, and every potato and every 
dish of peas costs me double what I’d be buying them 
for in the market. Still if I suggest doing away with 
the kitchen garden there’s the — ahem — to pay so I 
just grin and bear it. ” 

“I’ve read some of Lever’s books,” said Miss Jane. 
“Are the lower-class Irish really like his description; 

I mean so amusing, and yet so — useless? ” 


378 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Well they are, many of them. They were sup- 
posed to be a very thrifty joyous race once upon a 
time but possibly civilization has taught them sad- 
ness. You see, my dear lady, it isn’t knowledge that 
brings happiness; indeed I’d say it breeds discontent 
among primitive human races. The Irish humour has 
turned cynical when it isn’t coarse, and the Irish mind 
is imbued with the idea of a large injustice done to 
itself as a nation and an individual. Even in this 
small spot of the country you’ll find political differ- 
ences ready to breed and break forth on the smallest 
provocation. ” 

11 A la bonne chance , ” laughed Christopher. “We 
who come to be your tenants, have no politics, and 
little inclination for disturbance. We require but a 
holiday of change and peace. That is possible, is it 
not?” 

“ Quite possible, if you can get any one to believe in 
it. But I’m by no means certain that the whole town 
won’t be exercising its mind as to what intrigue or 
treasonable pretence isn’t underlying your visit. You 
see very few tourists or travellers come this way. 
Perhaps a clever American travelling in quackery, or 
a stray philanthropist getting up statistics on the 
parochial conditions of the country. Connaught is 
far less popular or frequented than the east and south 
provinces. But its climate is delightful, and its 
scenery hard to beat. That I suppose is the reason 
of your visit — monsieur?” 

He looked at Christopher enquiringly. 

“ But yes, and no, ” he answered. “I want to paint, 
of course, and I find subjects on all sides, but I am 
awaiting news, we all are, of someone who has chosen 
to come to the country by sea. We are not sure of the 


On Irish Sea and Soil 


379 


port, but we fancy it is Galway. So we wait and see 
what happens. ” 

The doctor did not put further questions. He was 
interested in both the old and the young man. He 
had also detected signs of strain and nervous break- 
down in his patient which led him to suppose that 
domestic troubles lay at the root of his illness. The 
sight of the gentle little lady who was to take charge 
of the patient was reassuring. He was anxious to see 
them all comfortably established in his house, and 
resolved to deal very firmly with Mrs. Finigan next 
morning. He gave a few general directions respecting 
Marmaduke Dax, and then took his leave, embellish- 
ing his prolonged farewells with quip and anecdote and 
compliment, until Miss Jane’s mind was like a bewild- 
ered butterfly not knowing how to follow or to poise. 

“What think you?” demanded Christopher, as the 
door closed. “Is he not delightful? Of a type unlike 
the stiff cold medecin of England?” 

“He is indeed, ” agreed Miss Jane. “But I find 
everything here delightful. The people are so quaint 
and so obliging. Oh ! I am glad I came, my dear. If 
only — only — Mara was with us I should be perfectly 
happy. ” 

“Well, who knows. She may be, ” said Christopher. 
“This is a strange country, dear Jeanne; and a strange 
people. One feels anything may happen, at any 
moment. I could tell you a story — But no, not yet 
will I tell it, though it would serve to illustrate that 
which I have said.” 

“You mean, about anything happening— here, or to 
us?” 

“Yes, dear Jeanne. Here — or to us. ” 


SCENE XXIII 
The Little Home in Ireland 


The Action in the Scene 

■ t Whatever Dr. Boyle said or did in the matter of 
the evacuation of his house it was reported free and 
ready for his new tenants, the following day. 

Tomlinson proceeded as advance guard, and with 
the aid of a chambermaid from the Hotel who had 
volunteered for service with the English lady he suc- 
ceeded in getting things fairly comfortable by night- 
time. He also discovered that it would be quite 
impossible to leave these hapless persons to their own 
devices, and straightway proposed himself Christo- 
pher’s factotum, and assistant in chief. The arrange- 
ment delighted'that youth. 

“But it is excellent — that idea!” he exclaimed. 
“Only, see you, Tomlinson, I believe the Irish colleens 
have something to do with your decision. That 
pretty Molly now, what an eye of roguery, and 
what a dimple in the cheek of rose. Have you 
observed at all the complexions of these Irish maidens ? 
Of a truth my brush falters when it seeks to transfer 
that purity, and colour. It is a marvel, is it not?” 

Tomlinson coughed discreetly . He and Christopher 
380 


The Little Home in Ireland 381 


were awaiting the arrival of Miss Jane and Dax and 
the luggage by a cumbersome vehicle entitled the 
“ Hotel fly.” 

‘‘Certainly, sir, their complexions are very clear, ” 
he replied. “ I have been told it is the moisture of the 
climate that does it, sir.” 

He was moving to and fro between the table and 
sideboard, doing the best he could with a very limited 
supply of plate, and a more lavish collection of odd 
glass and china. Scarcely anything matched, or 
was free from a chip or a crack. Tomlinson wondered 
what Miss Jane would say to it all. 

The girl Molly had professed herself quite able to 
do “plain cooking,” and some sort of a meal was in 
progress to inaugurate the first evening of the new 
menage. Christopher had flung wide the window to 
the beauty of the garden in its summer freshness, and 
the view of the rose-tipped mountains beyond. He 
stood looking out at it all, and congratulating himself 
on securing such a spot for a summer holiday. 

“Ah! if Mara would only come!” That was the 
everlasting crumpled rose leaf in an otherwise perfect 
content. Mara to meet, see, explain. To renew 
the offer of his love and protection for all the rest of 
her life if only she would consent to it. 

Strangely enough events had marched, bringing 
him to this land of his father’s tragedy and of Mara’s. 
Bringing here also the sole remaining participator in 
that tragedy. Entangling in the skein of events 
happening and to happen the gentle little spinster 
aunt whose devotion to him had meant her soul’s 
awakening. Bringing here also Tomlinson, the faith- 
ful and discreet, and leaving all of them breathless, 
stranded on those shores of Time that might, or might 


382 


The Rubbish Heap 

not mean tragedy. But whatever the meaning he 
was thankful for this breathing space. Thankful, 
that as waiting was the order of the day, they could 
all wait in united and harmonious peace, amidst 
exquisite surroundings. It would give pleasure to 
the patient down-trodden little aunt whom he had 
often pitied, and whose chains he had longed to break. 
She had contrived to do that for herself, and seemed 
a new creature in this new untrammelled existence. 

A remark from Tomlinson roused him. He turned 
from the window. 

“I was saying, sir, no possibility of your making 
an attalleyer here, sir; space being very limited.” 

“I know. I don’t believe there is a house in the 
whole neighbourhood that would afford accommoda- 
tion of that sort. But n'importe; I mean no matter. 
I am going to paint nature, Tomlinson — these skies, 
and valleys, and mountains. That living lovely radi- 
ance. Alas! that escapes me. I cannot express it — yet.” 

“I daresay it will come, sir, ” comforted Tomlinson. 
“Rome not being built in a day, as the saying is, nor 
chorascuro either, I suppose, sir.” 

“I hear wheels!” exclaimed Christopher, darting 
to the door. “Here they are! Oh, bother you, 
Tomlinson! we’re not at Agglestone House now.” 

For the polite butler had signified it was his business 
to answer the door, and did it. 

Miss Jane alighted, all curiosity and excitement. 
Dax followed, himself a little interested and aroused 
by novelty. The luggage was brought in and con- 
veyed to respective rooms and finally they all settled 
down to supper and talk and plans, while the rose 
tints paled to twilight, and the soft air from the 
mountains stole through the open window. 


The Little Home in Ireland 383 

From that first peaceful evening life flowed on in 
channels of individual interests to all in the Little 
House, as they named it. Miss Jane took up the 
reins of household management guided by Tomlinson 
and assisted by pretty Molly. All misadventures 
and shortcomings were treated as a joke. The com- 
missariat was more or less an affair of hazard, for 
supplies though unfailingly promised rarely knew 
fulfilment of such promising. But no one seemed to 
care. To Christopher it was second nature, to Miss 
Jane an exciting change from the prescribed rules of 
Agglestone House, and to Marmaduke Dax a matter of 
indifference. Most of his time was spent in the 
garden, lying on a long lounge chair, and with Miss 
Jane in attendance to read, or chat, or bring such 
simple nourishment as he would take. And something 
of the magic of that strange land, of her soft smile, her 
shadowy hopes, her dreams and tragedies stole to him 
with the passing of those idle days, and dreamful 
evenings. For the first time for long blank years he 
yielded to a woman’s influence. The gentle ministry 
and care brought to bear on his health and spirits 
helped him to a gradual recovery. Dr. Boyle still 
dropping in for daily visits noted the improvement, 
and jokingly declared he would turn the Little House 
into a convalescent home and advertise the air of 
this particular district as “miraculous.” To Miss 
Jane the breezy good-humoured Irishman was a 
tonic in himself. She had never met anyone in the 
least like him, and his praises of her nursing would 
set her checks aglow with gratified pride. In this 1 
atmosphere of peace and sympathy she was expanding 
as a plant in sunshine. 


384 The Rubbish Heap 

Three weeks had drifted by and she began to feel 
she would never want to return to her old life of 
stagnation and uselessness. She had written to her 
sister explaining the situation and apologizing for 
Tomlinson’s desertion, but as yet Miss Augusta had 
vouchsafed no answer. Not that that fact troubled 
the rebels. For in his way Tomlinson was perfectly 
contented, and the study of Irish character afforded 
him untold amusement. From Mrs. Finigan, the 
late housekeeper, to Larry Fallon, who kept the “big 
stores,” and intermediately from Tim the gardener 
to Muldoon the policeman he derived an infinitude of 
amusement and interest. Their inconsistencies and 
evasions, their cunning and cleverness were revela- 
tions in types that would have puzzled any English- 
man. They would carefully evade possible duty 
while excusing laziness by an eloquent explanation 
of industry that never materialized into deeds. 
Tomlinson learnt it was better to be his own carrier 
than to trust to a promise of speedy delivery. Wiser 
to do any job that needed doing than to wait on the 
leisure or inclination of a so-called expert. And 
after all he began to discover that activity did him 
no harm, and that a diversity of employment was a 
relief to the prolonged routine which had meant his 
service at Agglestone House. 

He had also written to Miss Augusta a polite and 
painstaking explanation which she had ignored. 
That did not trouble him in the least. Fie was 
fascinated by Christopher and the laissez-faire exist- 
ence that meant life in Ireland. For 3^ears he had 
known no holiday, worth the name; now he indulged 
in that best of holidays, a thorough change of life 
and occupation. 


The Little Home in Ireland 385 


So matters stood when one day an official document 
reached Christopher. It was from the police head- 
quarters, informing him that a small coasting vessel, 
coming from Prawle, had landed a passenger answering 
to his description, at a small seaport in Sligo. She 
had then disappeared. No trace of her had been 
discovered again. 

Christopher read out this scanty information at 
the breakfast table, and forthwith excitement and 
confusion reigned. 

“It is of course Mara! It is their fault, so to lose 
the clue when once it was obtained!” he cried angrily. 
“And I made my instructions so particular. Now 
— what is to be done?” 

“Have you a map?” asked Marmaduke Dax. 
‘‘We can then trace the route and distance to this 
county. I suppose she did know the name of the 
place where the convent is?” He looked enquiringly 
at Miss Jane. 

“She never mentioned it to me,” she said. 

“Nor to me,” said Christopher. 

“ But she must have known it. Katty Quirke would 
have told her.” 

“Yes, I should think so. But perhaps I had better 
go off to Sligo. It is not so far. If I am on the spot 
I may learn something. I do not put much faith in 
these Irish police. In France — ah! but how they 
would work and trace and plan to pursue such a trail 
as this!” 

“The whole business is bewildering to me,” ex- 
claimed Miss Jane. “Why she ran away as she did 
from that lovely island of yours, Mr. Dax; and 
now again why she conceals herself so mysteriously? 
One would think she was afraid of us, or else that she 


386 The Rubbish Heap 

does not care for all the trouble and anxiety she has 
caused.” 

“It may be that she does not realize we care so 
much,” said Christopher. “After the decease of 
Katty Quirke she seems to have become much altered. 
Or is it that she may have written to the island, and 
Chawley has not thought fit to send on the letter?” 

“I left instructions,” said Dax. “And I wrote to 
him from Dublin.” 

Miss Jane, with a vivid remembrance of the old 
misanthrope, thought he was more likely to ignore 
instructions than to carry them out. 

Finally Christopher ended the discussion by seizing 
up a time-table and looking out the earliest possible 
train. By superhuman effort he might catch it at 
the junction, and he started off so impetuously that 
there was no time for Miss Jane to remember that she 
— was left here in unchaperoned spinsterhood with 
an elderly bachelor as companion. What a strange 
situation! What would Augusta say if she heard 
of it? 

Dax lay on his usual cane lounge under the shade 
of the waving trees. The day was one of slumberous 
heat; of humming bees and lazy flutter of wings, and 
v scents of rose and purple stocks from the garden beds. 
He was in better health now and his mood today was 
calmly contemplative. Late events had so stirred 
the long stagnant stream of his life that he wondered 
how it had been possible to live so long in isolation. 
Grief, however great, and remorse, however bitter, are 
bound to wear themselves out in time. Association 
with youth, its hopes and ambitions, had awakened 
the artist soul again. Christopher and Mara, these 


The Little Home in Ireland 387 

two so strangely brought together, so strangely knit 
into the pattern of the past, they had helped to cure 
that long soul-sickness of his. And in these few 
peaceful weeks he had been conscious of another 
element: a gentle influence, a womanly care and 
thought centred on himself for the first time in his 
lonely life. He felt that that life was being, restored, 
that living tissues were building up his weakened 
frame. That reading, moving, even working were 
at once possible and desirable. “It’s very strange,” 
he was saying softly, “but very pleasant.” 

The click of the garden gate and a brisk step spoke 
of the arrival of his medical “adviser,” as he styled 
himself. Advice was his favourite prescription. 

“It’s not drugs you’re wanting, my dear man,” he 
said after a cheery greeting, “but a mental tonic. 
You’ve the sweetest, kindest little woman as nurse, 
and the finest air in the wide world to brace you up. 
Now put your own will into the matter and you’ll 
be as brisk and active as myself before another month’s 
gone over our heads. By the way, how old are you? ” 

“Fifty-five,” said Dax. 

“Sure, that’s a young man, as age goes. There’s 
few patients I have under sixty, barring the children. 
You’re not a married man, though?” 

Dax smiled faintly. “Does that insinuate I look 
younger than if I were?” 

“It does. Bachelors wear better. I’m one my- 
self, and I know. Still, you’ve got more the ways of a 
family man than I’d suspect from one who wasn’t. 
Now, if I might advise ” 

This being the usual formula of every visit, the 
convalescent looked up with a twinkle of expectation. 

“Yes, Doctor?” 


388 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Well, it’s not my way to intrude into private 
matters, nor suggest what isn’t feasible, and of course 
matrimony isn’t just a hypodermic syringe that you 
pick up and apply to a vein, letting loose bliss and 
unconsciousness. No, I’m not saying it is. But it’s a 
good thing at some period of life. It represents home 
comforts, and care, and sympathetic attention; the 
things a man would be needing in the autumn of his 
days. No hired influences have so beneficial an 
effect.” 

“Surely you’re not suggesting that I ” 

“Don’t excite yourself, my dear man, or you’ll 
be having a temperature, and then it’s bed I’ll order 
you and not the sweet peace of this garden, and the — 
Ah ! here she comes ! Isn’t her very presence healing 
and soothing? Sure, I never look at her but I think 
— Miss Jane, I was saying you’re the living embodi- 
ment of those poetic words : 

* When pain and anguish wring the brow, 

A ministering angel thou!' 

Look there now, Mr. Dax. Pure milk and the 
‘least drop’ as I’ve advised, and the neat little 
sponge cake. Faith, that’s an ideal lunch for a sick 
man! Not that you are sick any longer. A con- 
valescent patient we’ll be saying.” 

Miss Jane had drawn up a small rustic table and 
placed the “ideal lunch” upon it. She was always 
delighted to see Dr. Boyle. He represented a male 
element of buoyancy that was absolutely novel. He 
had changed her gentle smile to laughter, happy and 
heart-whole; had left her hopeful over her patient, 
even when he had seemed on the verge of a breakdown. 


The Little Home in Ireland 389 

In fact there was nothing in the way of cheeriness that 
Terence Boyle could not supply, however desperate 
a case he might be attending. 

“Don’t you see a great improvement in him. 
Doctor?” she asked. 

“I do of course. And why wouldn’t there be, with 
such a charming nurse to look after him, and such a 
spell of glorious weather, and the finest air in the 
world, as I’ve told him. He’ll be doing his five 
miles a day with the best of us before he leaves here. 
By the way, why don’t you be going for a drive, the 
two of you? There’s a little carriage you could hire 
from the Hotel, and a good horse. A change of 
scene will do you good. Drive down the West Road, 
and you’ll be in sight of the sea. It’s beautiful there 
along the coast.” 

Miss Jane looked enquiringly at Dax. “Would 
you like that?” she asked. 

As she put the question that old suggestion of mid- 
Victorian propriety again shot through her mind. 
She felt herself colouring, and meeting Marmaduke 
Dax’s thoughtful eyes was conscious that he noted the 
blush, and must be thinking her very stupid. 

“I should like it very much, ” he said. “If you 
would come?” 

“Of course she’ll come,” interposed the genial 
doctor. “What sort of a nurse would she be to be 
letting her patient go out for his first drive and no one 
to see that he wouldn’t be faint, or tired, or the like 
of that.” 

“There’s — Tomlinson?” suggested Miss Jane 

faintly. 

“Ah now, Miss Jane, what a suggestion to be 
making! A butler isn’t the sort of company for a 


390 


The Rubbish Heap 

sick man who needs sympathy and cheerfulness. 
No, no. I’ll be sending the little carriage round, say 
four o’clock; ’twill be getting cooler then, and the 
two of you are just to take the drive as I’ve advised 
you. Mr. Dax will tell me tomorrow that it’s done 
him all the good in the world.” 

He went off then talking and laughing till the gate 
shut him out. Once on the wide road, he sprang 
on to his bicycle, a smile on his lips as he rode away. 

“It’s not a bad day’s work that. I could see the 
seed sprouting almost as soon as ’twas dropped on the 
ground. Why, they’re made for one another, those 
two. Poor tender-hearted helpless souls! And 
neither of them mated at their time of life, just for 
want of a helping hand I’ll be bound. I declare if he 
doesn’t take my advice I’ll marry her myself sooner 
than let her go back to that cold-blooded country, 
and the narrow life she’s been leading there these 
thirty years! I suppose it’s nearer forty, but when 
she’s happy she looks ten years younger!” 

Miss Jane had brought out her work as usual and 
seated herself under the tree also as usual, while her 
patient sipped his milk, and ate his cake. The peace 
and beauty around them had an indescribable soothing 
influence. Dax felt it in every nerve of his body; 
Miss Jane recognized it as a blissful sense of bien 
2tre } the like of which she had never yet experienced. 
The knowledge that she had been of use, that her 
care and attention were valued, was a knowledge 
inexpressibly gratifying. Past years of suppression 
and stagnation were forgotten now. She knew that, 
even if she returned to their ostensible bondage, 
she would never return as a slave. 


The Little Home in Ireland 391 


As the needle moved to and fro through the delicate 
cambric, and her downcast eyes followed her busy 
fingers, Marmaduke Dax watched her, and pondered 
on her secluded and repressed life. 

“And to think you are Philip's sister 1” 

The thought was spoken unconsciously; voicing 
itself in the surprise of its recognition as a subject. 

Miss Jane started and looked up. “Philip — my 
brother? Did you ever know him?” 

“Yes, I knew him — but not as your brother.” 

He lapsed into silence again; his eyes wandered to 
the tree tops and then to the blue of the cloudless sky. 
Just such green shade, just such blue sky, just such 
golden warmth of idle days that first “wander year” 
he had spent in this land of beauty and magic. 

“Would you mind telling me about him? No one 
ever has, and I — was a mere baby when he was a 
grown-up schoolboy. All I know is that he ran away. 
No one ever heard of him again until Christopher 
came to us.” 

“But did Christopher never tell you anything?” 

“Very little. Only of wanderings, and travels; 
of his mother’s death and how attached he was to his 
father. How did you meet him? In Paris?” 

“No. It was in this country, and strangely enough, 
not so far from this part of it where we are now.” 

He leant back, and still with his eyes on the soft 
green of the orchard boundary he told her something 
of that story of the past. Not all; not even very 
much of the tragedy of it, but enough for her to seize 
and question in her own mind. A sudden vivid 
curiosity possessed her. She commenced enquiry. 

“This, then, was the reason of your interest in 
Christopher?” 


392 


The Rubbish Heap 

“No. I did not know until recently that he was 
Philip’s son. You must remember we were mere 
travelling companions. I was Max, and he was 
Philip. We never knew our real names.” 

“Then how did you find out that he was my 
brother, and Christopher’s father?” 

“It was Christopher’s discovery.” 

And in slow careful sentences he described that 
discovery; commencing with Mara’s finding of the 
torn papers in the rubbish heap. 

Miss Jane listened breathlessly; the work dropped 
from her slender fingers. She clasped them in a 
nervous tension, and kept her eyes on the face of the 
speaker. 

“Christopher and Mara,” she said at last. “Al- 
ways those two. How strange it is . . . one would 
think — Ah! you haven’t told me all! There’s 
more behind all this ! Oh ! please let me hear it. I’m 
not weak and foolish any longer. I could bear — a 
great deal.” 

The artist’s eyes rested wonderingly on the pale 
uplifted face. Should he tell her all? Should he 
give to her strangely innocent mind that sordid tragedy 
of love and wrong? It seemed cruel, and his heart 
shrank from cruelty to a woman. 

“I would rather not tell you,” he said. “Ask 
Christopher.” 

The hot painful colour crept up to Miss Jane’s 
delicate temples. 

“To me Christopher is a boy. One does not ques- 
tion a boy on his father’s ill-doing.” 

“I stand rebuked. Well, if you must hear, the 
simple truth is this. That tragic love affair of 
Philip’s resulted in the birth of a child. The mother 


The Little Home in Ireland 393 


found refuge in a convent. Yonder in the mountains 
she died. The child was given to the care of a peasant 
woman, but educated by the Sisters. On the death 
of her foster mother, she fled in terror from the place. 
Michael Quirke found her, and brought her to his own 
home. That is all we have traced of her history.” 

“ But — if this is so, if Mara’s mother was the beauti- 
ful girl with whom Philip was so infatuated, then ’* 

The colour receded from her face, leaving it deathly 
pale. 

“Perhaps you understand now why you were so 
drawn to the child?” said Dax gently. “Blood will 
speak, and nature has many voices.” 

“She is Philip’s child! Christopher is — does he 
know?” 

“He knows now. He has known since we met in 
Dublin after Mara disappeared.” 

“And she belongs to us. She is an Agglestone also; 
and Augusta — Augusta ” 

Her voice broke. All the memories of Mara, all 
the harsh things her sister had spoken of and to the 
child rushed back. She was of their kin, their blood 
ran in her veins, and she was a fugitive, distraught 
and alone, fleeing from the very protection she ought 
to have claimed. The tears filled her eyes and 
rolled unheeded down her cheeks. 

“ How blind I seem to have been ! ” she cried. “All 
this time ... all these years, and yet I never ques- 
tioned, or suspected.” 

“It was the child’s extraordinary likeness to 
* Moira of the golden head ’ that first drew my atten- 
tion to her. Christopher, in using her as a model, 
reproduced the mother’s wistful beauty to an extra- 
ordinary degree. Yet I could find out nothing for a 


394 


The Rubbish Heap 

long time. But Christopher knew of his father’s 
sin. Again one might say ‘the Hand of Fate’; 
for it was Mara who found the papers, and Mara who 
brought them to him. He told no one. He did 
nothing. He could not know then who she was. 
But five years later that longing to come here seized 
him again. You remember they were to come to- 
gether, and then Katty’s illness and death, and all 
that followed.” 

“I remember. It is all most wonderful. It reads 
like a chapter in a novel.” 

“Life has stranger chapters than any novel,” said 
Dax gravely. “Tragedies more pitiful; loves more 
hopeless.” 

Involuntarily their eyes met. Was it of his lost 
love that he thought then, of the tragedy that had 
laid waste his life, or of some dawn of peace and 
content that should blot out the past with tender 
fingers and point once more to Hope ? 


r 


AN INTERLUDE 


Brian o } Linn 

The ‘Tittle carriage” promised by Dr. Boyle came' 
round in due course and seemed to necessitate the 
inspection of a guard of honour. For Tomlinson 
carried out cushions and a rug for the invalid, and the 
gardener, and Patsy the gardener’s boy, and Molly 
the maid of all work, and a cousin of Molly’s who had 
dropped in casually for a cup of tea and a gossip, 
all came out to the gate to speed the equipage and 
exchange courtesies with the driver. 

He was attired in a shabby livery and a battered 
hat, and had a somewhat striking appearance by 
reason of being cross-eyed and red-haired. 

Miss Jane looked nervously from him to the small 
shabby victoria which represented a second-hand 
purchase of the landlord. Dax, who was getting used 
to Irish ways, did not trouble to criticize appearances, 
having learnt that the vehicle is a secondary considera- 
tion compared with the animal who is attached to it. 
This animal looked meek and harmless enough, and 
he and Miss Jane settled themselves for the drive. 

All might have gone well at the start but for an 
inadvertent cheer from Patsy, the gardener’s assistant, 
which had the effect of startling the horse into an 
erect attitude of protest. Being lashed and adjured 
into the resumption of normal defiance the animal 
395 


396 


The Rubbish Heap 

took the road at an almost alarming speed. The 
little carriage swayed from side to side, and Miss 
Jane with a sudden gasp of terror seized the arm of 
her companion, and gave herself up for lost. Dax 
soothed her and reassured her until the first wild 
rapture of departure had passed. Then the horse 
dropped into a brisk trot, and the driver turning 
round assured them that “’twas only playful he was, 
the creature — and they’d no need to be alarmed.” 

“ There, ” said Dax, patting the trembling hand 
still within his arm, “you see it’s all right. Irish 
horses are apt to be frisky, but there’s nothing to 
fear. It was only that wretched boy who startled 
him.” 

Miss Jane with a sense of effort tried to compose 
herself, but she felt that any enjoyment of the drive 
would be impossible. Still it would never do for a 
nurse to desert her charge, so she determined to 
brave matters out. 

They had given the driver no special directions as 
to route, and the horse having taken the matter into 
his own hands, or rather heels, they found themselves 
being carried swiftly along the valley road instead of 
skirting the sea. It was a pleasant enough road; 
shady and cool. If only the mettlesome steed had 
not displayed such a fancy for quickening his pace 
at any trifling provocation Miss Jane would have 
enjoyed it. But her nervous starts punctuated every 
jerk of the carriage, and Dax began to fear that she 
was not enjoying the drive at all. 

He tried to divert her thoughts by talking of other 
matters, or pointing out some beauty of the land- 
scape as it danced or lapsed before their eyes. The 
road grew rougher after a time and then meandered up 


Brian o’ Linn 


397 


a hill which seemed to sober the animal’s spirits. 
After one effort at a break-neck gallop he dropped into 
a walk, and the Jehu gathering the reins firmly into 
his grasp turned round for a little conversation with 
his fare. 

“It’s well on four miles we’re come,” he said, 
“ and the boreen yonder goes up the mountain. There’s 
few people using it these times, but ’twas famous once. 
In the dip there beyond was a thriving village. Sure, 
’tis gone now, save for broken walls, and a cabin or 
two that’s no roof to them. But a mighty chief lived 
there, in the ould time. Before the Great Famine it 
was. And the great fights there’d be, for sure ’twas 
faction against faction, and neither’d be givin’ in 
to the other so long as he’d a kippeen in his hand 
and a man to his call. Ah, we’ll not see the likes o’ 
them days again! Ireland’s the sorrowful country 
intirely. The spirit’s gone out av her people, and it’s 
the black day for us all when the big steamer does 
be callin’ round at the seaports, and the young men 
and the girls do be goin’ off wid themselves to strange 
countries. Sure, didn’t me own boy do that, and 
though it’s well he’s done for himself out there in 
Ameriky, and many’s the dollar he does be sendin’ 
home, yet I’d rather be seein’ him back here on the bit 
av ground that was belongin' to us. I would that.” 

“But why?” asked Dax, much interested. “You 
know that the trouble in Ireland is all due to that idea 
of families living on a small acreage that can’t possibly 
support them. It’s far better for the young men to go 
out in the world and work as they do work, once the 
sloth of their native lives is cast aside. Far better. 
They can then help their parents and friends instead 
of adding to their burdens.” 


398 


The Rubbish Heap 

“It’s little ye know of Ireland, or the Irish, to be 
talkin’ that way,” said the man. ‘‘Sure, never an 
Irish father or mother in the whole country would be 
thinkin’ a son or a daughter o’ theirs a burden.” 

“Possibly they’d say so, but that doesn’t disprove 
the fact. Land is only productive to a certain extent, 
and what would support two people can’t be expected 
to support three, or four, or even more. You say 
yourself that your son sends you money from America; 
well, could he have done that had he remained 
here?” 

“He could not, sir, and I wouldn’t be expectin’ it. 
But I’d give him back his dollars and welcome just 
for a sight av his face to cheer me ould age. It’s not a 
pleasant sight, sir, an empty chimney corner; and 
wife and child is lost to me and the years are gettin’ 
lonesome.” 

“But — you’re not old,” exclaimed Miss Jane, 
breaking into the conversation. 

“It’s but little short av sixty I am, ma’am; and ’tis 
ould enough to get the warnin’ o’ lonely days.” 

He turned his attention once more to the frolicsome 
steed, who now seemed desirous of looking over a 
ragged hedge. Marmaduke Dax glanced at the little 
grey-gloved hand he still held within his arm. His 
mind recalled those words of Dr. Boyle and fitted 
them into the mournful plaint of this queer charioteer. 
“Little short of sixty.” But that was almost his 
own case. True that fifty-five had almost a middle- 
aged sound about it while sixty sounded the knell 
of appointed years. But strangely enough those 
words found an echo in his own heart. “An empty 
chimney-corner . . . and the years are getting lone- 
some.” 


Brian o’ Linn 


399 

He recalled himself at last. His companion was 
speaking. 

“ How very different the Irish are from us. You get 
a whole family history with very little encouragement. ” 

“That’s true,’’ he answered. “They seem as 
proud of giving their confidence as we are of 
withholding ours.” 

“But I like them; one can’t help it,” she said. 
“Their very difference is an attraction. I had no 
idea of what Ireland was like except what geographies 
and histories told me. Now, I feel I should like 
really to know the people; one can’t help sympathizing 
with their patriotism, and their clannishness. Strange 
and impossible as they are in some ways they’re very 
brave and very loyal. I wish England had tried to 
understand them before she tried to rule them.” 

“I expect England has often wished that also,” 
said Dax, and he sighed suddenly, and again looked 
at the grey glove, and thought how pleasant it was 
to have someone claiming his protection. 

“You — you have enjoyed this experience?” he 
asked suddenly. “No, I don’t mean this afternoon, 
but the time you have spent in Ireland?” 

“I have enjoyed every hour of it,” said Miss Jane. 
“You can’t think how I dread going back to the old 
narrow groove of life. It is all very well when 
Christopher is with us, but when he goes off on his 
travels ” 

“He may not go off so much now. He has learnt 
how to paint well. He should settle down to steady 
work if he wants to make a name. He should — 
Good heavens! what’s the matter now!” 

For the horse suddenly shied violently, and the 
little carriage was whirled up against the hedge, to the 


400 


The Rubbish Heap 

infinite risk of overturning itself. Followed a volley 
of oaths from the driver, a sharp reprimand from 
Marmaduke Dax, and an entreaty from Miss Jane 
to allow her to get out while the carriage was being 
extricated. 

“ Can't you make your horse stand still for a 
moment?” demanded Dax. 

“I cannot, sir, when ’tis that red cloak that’s 
scuttled into the hedge beyant, and is frightenin’ 
the wits out av the poor beast ! Get out o’ that who- 
ever ye are and behave like a dacent Christian! 
What in the livin’ wurrld makes ye think ye’re hidin’ 
yerself, whin ye’re as plain to see as a haystack!” 

“Who is it? Who’s hiding?” asked Dax. “Wait, 
let me get out and I’ll help you, ” he added. 

With surprising agility he sprang to the step and 
then to the ground, and went to the horse’s head to 
steady him. That spirited quadruped now stood 
perfectly calm and contemplated the scene with a 
composure that was baffling. Miss Jane got out on 
the other side of the vehicle, and gave a sigh of relief 
as she felt the solid ground beneath her feet. She 
made a private vow never to adventure on another 
drive with this charioteer, if ever they reached home 
in safety. 

“What was it startled the horse? I can see 
nothing!” exclaimed Dax. 

“’Twas a small quare figure, I’m thinkin’,” said 
the driver, standing up on the seat and peering over 
and around the hedge. “Yes, there she is, the 
creature; stumblin’ along like a frightened hare, wid 
the hounds in full cry after her!” 

He hailed the fugitive at the top of his voice. 
Dax could see nothing, from the road. He managed 


Brian o' Linn 


401 


to get the horse and carriage into the centre instead 
of the side of it, and then turned his attention to 
Miss Jane. 

“Do you think we’d better return now?” he said. 

“Indeed, yes. I can’t say I’m enjoying this drive 
at all. Do you think the animal will behave better 
when he knows he’s going home?” 

“An’ is it the dacent Brian o’ Linn ye’re after 
callin’ an animal l” exclaimed the indignant Jehu. 
“Him as was hunted once by the resident magistrate 
himself, and has broken more necks and been in at 
more deaths than any hunter in the county! Sure,] 
ye English folk don’t know what it is to sit behind a 
dacent bit av horseflesh! Why, it’s a glory to the] 
place that we’re kapin’ him in the stables, and only j 
his legs isn’t equal to the spirit av him he’d be showin’ 
a straight line yet to thim as could apprayciate a 
run across country! But who’s to stand up against 
onnatural queer figures that do be jumpin’ out av 
hedges, and no reason to expect such a thing!” 

“But who jumped out of the hedge? I saw no 
one!” cried Dax. 

“Nor I, ” said Miss Jane. 

“Well then if ye turns yerselves round, and goes 
up to the first break in the hedge, and looks through 
into the fields beyant, maybe ye’ll see a red cloak, and 
somethin’ within it, that’s neither woman nor child, 
that’s all I’ve got to say. I’ll wait here and breathe 
the poor misnamed beast, as is pantin’ the heart out 
with the fright av him, and the onaisiness av not 
knowin’ was it human at all, or an evil fairy, saints 
between us and all harm!” 

He crossed himself rapidly, and Miss Jane, to whom 
this harangue had been wildly unintelligible, joined 


26 


402 


The Rubbish Heap 

Marmaduke Dax, glad of the respite. “Shall we 
go up the road and see if there’s any one?” she sug- 
gested. “The horse certainly shied, as if startled.” 

“Yes, let us,” said Dax eagerly. “It’s not a very 
good place to turn round. I think we’d better let 
our driver manage that by himself.” 

Miss Jane welcomed the suggestion, and they walked 
on over the rough uneven road, and paused at the 
first break in the hedge. Dax looked through into an 
uncultured field beyond, and Miss Jane on tiptoe 
tried to see over his shoulder. 

“There’s nothing there,” he said, after a prolonged 
scrutiny. 

“Let me look.” 

He moved aside, and she took his place. 

“There is — something, I think,” she cried rather 
breathlessly. “But it doesn’t move, it’s lying down. 
It’s ... oh, do go and see. It’s trying to get up 
. . . no, it’s fallen again!” 

Marmaduke Dax pushed his way through the 
broken aperture and set out over the field. The 
excitement of the past two hours seemed to have 
banished the last remnants of invalidism. Miss 
Jane watched his progress in flushed astonishment. 
She had no idea he could walk so rapidly. 

She saw him reach the prostrate figure, bend 
down, and look at the face. Then suddenly he turned 
and a great shout rent the stillness and fell on her 
ears. 

“Jane! Jane! come at once. It’s Mara!" 

How it all happened Miss Jane could never quite 
recall. Yet in some acrobatic fashion she manipu- 
lated the hedge and the rough stony field, and reached 


Brian o’ Linn 


403 

Marmaduke Dax where he knelt beside a stiff un- 
conscious figure, whose face looked like death, and 
yet was Mara’s face in all its changed wan loveliness. 

“Lay her flat, it’s the best thing for faintness,” 
said Miss Jane eagerly. “I wish there was some 
water at hand.” 

Dax rose ; having gently laid the unconscious figure 
in the directed attitude. 

“I’ve a flask,” he said. “Doctor Boyle told me 
never to go out without a drop of brandy at hand. 
Shall I ” 

“Yes, rub her temples and I’ll try to get a few drops 
between her lips presently. Oh, poor thing, how] 
wasted she is ! What on earth has happened to her ! ” 

Patiently they waited for some sign of returning 
life, and at last her eyes opened, and Mara gazed 
into the anxious faces. A startled cry escaped her. 
Terror leapt into her eyes. She struggled into a 
sitting position and glanced from side to side like a 
trapped creature. 

“Mara, child, don’t you know us? . . . What on 
earth has happened to you? Why do you look so 
frightened?” 

The child babbled something incoherently. Miss 
Jane could not understand what she meant. She 
looked anxiously at Marmaduke Dax. 

“She doesn’t seem quite herself, ” he said. “Mara, 
my child, surely you know us? You’re with your 
friends again.” 

But the terror in the frightened eyes, the strange 
gasping sentences seemed to convey no memory of 
them or of the past. 

“We must get her to the carriage,” said Miss 
Jane. “Poor child, she may have been frightened 


404 The Rubbish Heap 

by something, or someone, in her wanderings. Do 
you think we could get her to the road between us?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

He assisted the child to her feet, but she swayed 
and would have fallen had not Miss Jane supported 
her on the other side. Then, very slowly and pain- 
fully they half guided, half carried her to the gap in 
the hedge. There they were faced by a new difficulty. 
It would need someone stronger than themselves to 
lift her through the aperture, and on to the road 
below. They stopped and took counsel together, 
j “If you would go forward and hold the horse, 
perhaps the driver could lift her,” said Miss Jane, and 
welcoming the suggestion as the only feasible one, 
Dax scrambled through, and hastened to the carriage. 
He explained the situation, but found Tim Ryan 
(the coachman) still doubtful as to the “creature” 
being flesh and blood or “one o’ thim,” as he lucidly 
expressed it. However, a half-sovereign bribe proved 
a stronger inducement than any appeal to feelings 
of humanity, and he slowly dismounted from the 
driver’s seat, and gave the reins of “Brian o’ Linn” 
into Marmaduke’s impatient hands. That spirited 
steed having been turned in a homeward direction 
manifested considerable impatience at the delay, but 
his new custodian brought him close to the hedge, 
and induced him to sample the grass at the side of it, 
while awaiting further orders. Meanwhile Ryan had 
successfully accomplished the feat desired of him, and 
furthermore, declaring the “creature” wasn’t the 
weight of a new-born infant, he carried her to the 
victoria, and placed her on the seat. 

Dax was thankful now for those cushions and 
rugs at which he had scoffed. By aid of them the 


Brian o’ Linn 


405 


child was enabled to preserve a semi-recumbent 
position, and Miss Jane’s arm and shoulder gave 
important support. Dax got up beside the driver, 
partly to give more room in the little carriage, and 
partly to direct a more cautious rate of speed. But 
the homeward journey had evidently a soothing effect 
on Brian o’ Linn, and he trotted along at a gentle 
pace which provoked no alarm. 

When they at last reached the end of this ad- 
venturous excursion Mara seemed again unconscious, 
or in a sleep so deep that it resembled unconscious- 
ness. She was carried into the “ Little House” by 
Ryan, and then upstairs to Miss Jane’s own bedroom, 
where she was laid down on the bed. Then Dax 
returned to the carriage and was driven to the village 
where he discovered Dr. Boyle just locking up his 
surgery. He told him of the new patient, and once 
more the long-suffering Brian o’ Linn was turned from 
his stables, and driven back at a speed he greatly, 
resented. 

The doctor heard Mara’s story, or at least the 
necessary portion of it, before he saw her. 

When he looked at the white thin face, and wasted 
figure he seemed horrified. 

“ The child has been just starved, ” he said. “ Why 
she’s skin and bone, and no more strength than a 
baby, I’d say. And . . . why, what’s this?” He 
touched one outstretched foot, and then lifted it. 
“She’s broken her ankle, or as near broken it as could 
be. Just get off her shoes and stockings, while I see 
what’s the mischief.” 

Miss Jane obeyed, and Molly came up with a jug 
of hot water and towels. They bathed the poor 
discoloured foot, and Dr. Boyle set the bones and 


406 The Rubbish Heap 

bandaged them. Then he bade Miss Jane undress 
the child and get her into bed. 

“She’s on the verge of some brain trouble,” he 
said. “She’ll want careful watching. Shall I be 
sending you a nurse?” 

“Oh no!” exclaimed Miss Jane. “I am quite 
able to take charge of her. I’ve known her for many 
years. We can’t understand what possessed her 
to run away and keep us in ignorance of her where- 
abouts. However that’s a long story. I’m only too 
thankful we’ve found her again. I — oh, I hope she’s 
not going to be very ill!” 

“She is — then,” said the doctor. “And she’s in a 
poor enough condition to face illness. However, she’s 
young, and Nature’s a wonder. We doctors don’t 
need to take much credit to ourselves. The best 
physician in the wide world is the one who asks no 
fee, and never yet wrote a prescription.” 

Then promising to send in a soothing draught, and 
giving due directions for the night, he left her to carry 
out his instructions. 

Very carefully and gently Miss Jane began her 
task, removing garment by garment while Molly 
assisted her. 

Inside the bodice of the dusty black frock was 
slipped a small book. Miss Jane, after a hurried 
glance, put it aside on the table. The cross on the 
cover showed it as a religious work. It did not sur- 
prise her that Mara should carry it about with her. 
It seemed in keeping with that rosary which still 
hung from her waist in token of her Faith. 

When the child was undressed and washed and laid 
between the cool linen sheets, Miss Jane took both 


Brian o’ Linn 407 

rosary and book and laid them side by side in a 
drawer. 

Mara must have this room she decided. It was 
the largest, and shadiest of the bedrooms ; the windows 
looked out on the garden. Molly anxiously enquired 
what the “mistress” would be sleepin’ on herself, as 
she had given up the only comfortable bed in the 
house? 

“Anything,” said Jane. “The sofa from down- 
stairs can be brought up. That will do quite well.” 

Molly retired to consult with Tomlinson as to the 
carrying up of this couch. 

“To be puttin’ herself aside like that for a bit av a 
girleen, and who’s not the lady either. Sure, Mr. 
Tomlinson, it’s puzzled I am as to why she’d be doin’ 
it.” 

“There’s a good deal about English folk that would 
puzzle the likes of you, Molly,” said Tomlinson. 
“But it’s a wicey-wersa too, if you can understand 
what I mean?” 

“Indade I cannot,” said Molly. “There’s times 
ye speak as forrin’, Mr. Tomlinson, as if ye were 
cornin’ from the wilds o’ Californyia itself!” 


SCENE XXIV 


Within and without the “Little House ” 

Action in the Scene 

There now ensued for the household generally a 
time of stress and anxiety. Miss Jane made a perfect 
nurse, and the helpful Molly seconded her cheerfully. 
Tomlinson took charge of the household, and Marma- 
duke Dax suddenly showed himself as an active force 
instead of a passive assistant. 

At the end of the third day Christopher arrived, 
and received the astounding information of Mara’s 
discovery. He had pursued another false trail, and 
after anathematizing the Irish police had returned 
without announcement. 

Long and anxious were the talks between himself 
and Dax what time that feeble life fluttered in the 
balance. Through the open window of her room came 
the ceaseless mournful babble of a brain distraught, 
letting forth a stream of incoherence pitiful enough 
to those who loved her, yet withholding its secret 
even amid its delusions. Miss Jane shed many 
tears over those childish meanderings, yet caught no 
complaint or any reason for unhappiness. And the 
child was always gentle,' even in delirium. Her 
4°*L 


“Little House” 


409 


ravings were not like most fever-ravings, but a certain 
note of fear they held always puzzled her devoted 
nurse. 

Fear of whom? Of what? That secret was never 
betrayed. 

Doctor Boyle gave it as his opinion that the illness 
was rooted in some violent shock to the nervous 
system, and brought to a climax by the hardships 
and deprivations she had voluntarily sought. 

Yet, when the happily united trio consulted over 
the matter, there seemed no reason for such a 
catastrophe. 

“She was just her usual self when I last saw her, ” 
said Miss Jane. “That was before she joined you 
on the island, Mr. Dax.” 

“And she was just her usual self there, as far as I 
can remember,” he said thoughtfully. “She went 
about the house and her usual duties, and accepted 
the news of her fortune. The only thing I can recall 
is her objection to going to a foreign school. But, of 
course, I only suggested that. I should not have 
enforced it.” 

“What about Chawley?” asked Miss Jane suddenly. 
“Vfere they good friends?” 

“As good as could be expected,” said Dax. “He 
was a confirmed woman hater, and naturally did not 
welcome her as a permanent guest. Still, I don't 
fancy he was responsible for her flight. What makes 
you ask?” 

Miss Jane coloured faintly. They were having tea 
in the garden, and Molly was in charge of the sickroom. 

“Something he said that day I went over to get 
Christopher’s sketches, and something that happened 
last night.” 


410 


The Rubbish Heap 


“Last night ?” 

“Yes. Mara had been quiet a long time. I 
thought she was asleep. Then suddenly she started 
up, and called out: ‘No, Chawley, no l don't tell 
them — oh, don’t tell them!”’ 

Dax and Christopher exchanged looks. 

“That was very strange, ” said the boy. 

“Very,’’ echoed Marmaduke Dax. “I cannot 
fancy Chawley saying anything agreeable. But, on 
the other hand, he knew nothing of Mara’s history. 
He never went into Prawle. And even jealousy 
could hardly have dowered his dull brain with inven- 
tive faculties.” 

Miss Jane finished her tea and leant back in her 
chair. She was tired, and the heat was trying, and 
the long strain on her energies was beginning to tell. 
Dax noted it all. There was something anxious and 
protective in his eyes. He put a cushion for her 
head, and begged her to rest and not talk. 

Her faint smile thanked him. She was getting 
accustomed to a certain deference and watchfulness 
in his manner that was infinitely soothing. 

Christopher lit a cigarette. They all sat there 
under the shade of the great trees and meditated 
quietly over events. The painful babbling no longer 
poured out through that window above. The scents 
of verbena and honeysuckle were heavy on the air. 
A certain brooding of cloud, and windless heat be- 
tokened storm at hand. But the peace was so intense 
that it even made conversation intrusive. Each of 
the three was busy with conjecture, wondering if 
some real reason had actuated Mara’s strange journey, 
or whether it meant merely a long thought-out plan. 

Christopher broke the silence at last. “ Nom 


“Little House” 


41 x 

dun nom ! ” he exclaimed. “But then for what a 
negligent fool I am! Only at this moment do I 
remember my promise to the Reverend Mother of the 
convent. Cher maitre , you did not remind me?” 

“No. I too forgot.” 

Miss Jane opened her tired eyes. “What is that 
you’re saying?” 

“We made the Mother Superior promise to let us 
know if she heard anything of Mara. Somehow we all 
felt sure that the convent was the goal of her wander- 
ings. Of course, on our part, we were to do the same.” 

“And we have not done it,” said Christopher. 
“It has escaped our minds in this confused and 
trying time.” 

“But now I think of it, ” exclaimed Dax, “it occurs 
to me that Mara must have been on her way there 
when we discovered her. That road — you remember 
— Miss Jane?” 

“I shall never forget it, ” she said. 

“No — nor I. It was a painful experience. But 
nevertheless you remember what the man told us 
about the ruined village, and the wild times there of 
old? Well, that road leads up to the mountains, and 
Mara was travelling that way when we discovered 
her. The convent lies half hidden in a sort of tri- 
angle, one end of which forms the valley. Another 
leads to the coast, a rough fishing hamlet. How she 
made her way from the seaport to where we found 
her is a mystery. No wonder she was exhausted, and 
half dead.” 

Christopher rose. “I will go within, and write 
that letter. Only I hope ” 

He paused and looked at Miss Jane, and then at 
Dax. “Do we wish to lose her again?” he asked. 


4i2 The Rubbish Heap 

Eye consulted eye. Miss Jane spoke for herself. 
“ I do not — for one. It has been such a joy to recover 
her; to feel that I have, in a way, a right to her stronger 
than your own, dear Christopher.” 

“She belongs to us all,” said Marmaduke Dax. 
“But the decision of her own choice must remain 
with herself.” 

“Then — you think I should write?” 

Christopher looked at Dax, at Miss Jane. She 
had recognized the truth of his words only too well. 
She who had known no freedom of thought or action 
for the best years of a woman’s life. Suddenly there 
swept to her mind a vision of a white room, and a 
white bed, and a kneeling figure clasping a rosary, 
and lifting to the cross that hung there a face of tragic 
appeal. 

“Yes, Christopher — you must write,” she faltered. 

And Marmaduke Dax looking at her white face and 
quivering lips recognized something of a woman’s 
power of self-sacrifice. 

“She is brave,” he thought. “She is giving up 
what made the chief interest of her life. I wish I 
could supply another.” 

He looked at the pale wistful little face; paler than 
ever under the strain of these past weeks. A sudden 
anxiety awoke. His heart gave an odd quick throb. 
He w T as conscious of emotion, excitement, longing. 

“Dear little friend,” he said softly, “I hope for 
your sake her choice may be to remain. But, you 
know how strange a creature she was; unlike all 
other children in childhood, unlike all other girls 
in girlhood.” 

“That is true. Only it does not help matters. 
She is of our blood and kin. She is my brother’s 


“Little House” 


4i3 


child, wronged and humiliated by his sin. My 
whole heart cries out to her to let us atone, if we can.” 

“And if she chooses another life — the religious, 
what then?” 

“ I cannot bear to think of it ! Not but what it may 
mean a happy life to her. She is not of this world, 
not in the real sense of regarding its importance. Still, 
human love must seem sweet and desirable to her.” 

“It is, perhaps, because of the sweetness and 
desirability that she chooses to forego it. If you 
cast your eyes back, can you recall any act or word of 
Mara’s betraying real human love, even affection?” 

“I think she loved Christopher.” 

“She saw him through the veiling senses of his art; 
the glamour of what was at once novel and appealing. 
If you , dear Jane, didn’t win her love then certainly 
no one else had much chance.” 

For once the dropping of the formal prefix was 
noticeable. Miss Jane felt the blood rushing to her 
cheeks in that foolish irrational fashion that of late 
had troubled her. She tried to answer lightly. 

“I am afraid you wrong Christopher’s powers of 
attraction.” 

“Attraction,” said the artist dogmatically, “is a 
very different thing from the sterling worth of qualities 
that awaken one’s admiration, despite oneself. For 
instance ” 

But Miss Jane rose hurriedly. “There is Molly 
at the window. I must go in.” 

Molly had signalled from the window to her mistress 
and met her at the door. 

“She’s awake now, miss, an’ that sensible, in spite 
of the weakness of the fever.” 


4H 


The Rubbish Heap 


Miss Jane went softly to the bedside. Mara lay 
back on the pillows, her face white as themselves, the 
glory of her wonderful hair shorn and shortened by 
reason of the fever. When she saw Miss Jane she 
smiled faintly, and lifted a little thin hand to the 
two outstretched so eagerly. 

“I’m glad to see you again. It’s a long bad dream 
I’ve had. . . .’’ 

“A dream; yes, my child. But you’re awake now, 
and it’s all past and over. We won’t let it come 
back. Now, don’t try to talk; just rest there, and 
sleep, and take what’s given you, and we’ll have you 
running about as well as ever before long.” 

The pale brow drew into a puckered frown. “I 
don’t feel like sleepin’, my mind’s not at rest. . . . 
If you’d only tell me, Miss Jane, how I came here? 
Is it at Prawle I am again?” 

“No dear, you’re in Ireland. We — we are all 
here. This house was taken by Mr. Dax.” 

“Is he here, and Mr. Christopher?” 

“Yes.” 

“And it’s Ireland — and you’re in Ireland?” 

“It’s quite simple, Mara. I came to keep house 
for them. It’s a summer holiday.” 

“Holiday — ” Her eyes closed, she seemed trying 
to recall something that escaped her. “I can’t 
rightly mind,” she said. “It — hurts.” 

“Don’t try to think, dear. You are not strong 
enough. You’ve been very ill.” 

Mara sighed, and one restless hand moved upwards 
to her childish bosom. 

Her eyes opened suddenly. “My book . . . 
where is it? I ... I remember now!” 

She sat up, flushed and trembling; her glance 


“Little House” 


4i5 


wandering from side to side. “My book — Katty’s 
book — Oh! is it lost?” 

“No, child, it’s quite safe,” said Miss Jane sooth- 
ingly. “I found it, and it lies there in that drawer, 
with your rosary.” 

The distress in her eyes deepened to a sort of fear. 

“Oh, give it me, Miss Jane! Let me have it. . . . 
I can tell you better then what’s chanced to me.” 

“I’m sure you’d better wait, my dear. Try and 
sleep, and you can tell me afterwards. You’re quite 
safe. You’ve nothing to fear.” 

“ I can’t sleep. . . . I must have my book.” 

Hoping to soothe her, Miss Jane went to the drawer 
and took out the little prayer-book and brought it to 
her. Mara took it into her trembling 'hands, and 
stared at it for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. 

“Yes . . . that was it. Now I’m rememberin’. 
. . . She brought it to me — there — on the island. 
She said ’twas Katty’s last dying words that were 
written in it. . . .” 

She turned a leaf, and then another. Miss Jane 
watched her with puzzled eyes. 

“She? . . . Whom do you mean, Mara; who 
brought you that?” 

“Cherry brought it. . . . ’Twas Cherry who said 
I was a shameless, low-born beggar . . . that they 
at Prawle would point at me in scorn. ... That 
Mr. Christopher had only looked upon me as a model 
. . . and that models were but light and shameless 
girls. . . . Oh, Miss Jane, I had no thought to 
hear such words, and they seemed to break my 
heart. . . . And Katty had written ... in that 
book. . . 

“Let me see!” cried Miss Jane sternly. “I don’t 


416 


The Rubbish Heap 

believe any one could be so cruel, as you say, least of 
all Katty, who loved you so!” 

| She took the book from the trembling hands. On 
the usual blank fly-leaf were some illiterate sentences : 

“Go back to the convint , Mara. You're naught but 
a chanse child born of shame. I was yer only friend. 
No one will want ye when I'm gone. Go back. 

“Katty." 

Miss Jane stared at the words; then a thrill of 
fierce indignation shook her from out her usual 
composure. 

“ Oh, Mara ! how cruel ! This was never written by 
Katty. I’m sure of it ! Don’t you know her writing ? ’ ’ 

Mara shook her head. “I’ve only seen her do 
figures, an’ such like.” 

“But the expressions, the spelling, they’re not the 
Irish idioms. I’ve heard Katty talk so often. She 
would write as she talked. Tell me again who brought 
this to you?” 

“Cherry Menlove. She that was the kitchen maid 
so long, Miss Jane. She never liked me. ... I 
know that . . . but she wouldn’t have been so cruel 
as to make this up and write it in the holy book as 
belonged to the dead.” 

“Cherry Menlove?” Miss Jane threw her mind 
back to the time when Cherry had been an inmate of 
Agglestone House. When she had attended to the 
studio on the pretence of saving Tomlinson. But 
surely she could never have had sufficient intelligence 
to plot such mischief as this ? What could have been 
her object? What was Mara to her? She resolved 
to consult Christopher. Meanwhile she must soothe 


“Little House” 


4i7 


this poor distraught soul and bring it back to peace, 
and the consciousness of care and protection. 

“Mara, child,” she said, “I begin to see now why 
you ran away. You will never know the distress 
you caused us — Mr. Dax, and Christopher, and my- 
self. We have searched and enquired and watched, 
and the police were searching also. All we could 
find out was that someone answering to your descrip- 
tion had left Prawle in a trading vessel, coming to the 
west coast of Ireland.” 

“Yes, I did that. Chawley managed my passage 
for me, and took me to the vessel.” 

“Chawley — he too! And he swore and declared 
to his master that he knew nothing of how you had 
got away, or the reason.” 

Mara’s lips quivered. “I made him promise not to 
tell. I wanted no one to know until I was safe back 
in the convent.” 

“So — it was there you were going. Christopher 
was right.”. 

“It’s there I’m going still, Miss Jane. There’s no 
better place in the world for such as me. I don’t 
know why I was born at all. . . . Sin and sorrow 
— that’s my story . . . and it’s a story I’m ashamed 
for Mr. Christopher to know. I — I feel I never 
want to see his eyes set on me again.” 

Exhausted she fell back on the pillow. Miss Jane 
administered the restorative prescribed, and refusing 
to let her speak any more sat there beside her till 
she fell asleep. 

Never in all her peaceful existence had she been so 
stirred and angered as by this story. Not for one 
moment did she believe Katty Quirke had written 
those words in the prayer-book. This girl had done 


27 


418 


The Rubbish Heap 

it; this foolish envious creature who had never liked 
the child, and always been jealous of her constant 
presence in Christopher’s studio. What would he 
think? What would he say when he heard? 

“I see it all, I understand. Poor helpless child. . . 
how could we ever have thought you ungrateful!” 

Later on Miss Jane was to learn of how Chawley 
had planned Mara’s departure, and secured her a 
passage in the trading vessel that was coming to Sligo. 
Dax was absent. The old man took her to Prawle 
Quay in the electric launch. She was hurried into 
the vessel, and there left. When Dax returned to the 
island he was only met by the dogged stupidity of the 
old plotter, a stolid profession of ignorance, and an 
indifference to the child’s fate that was almost as 
cruel as his share in it. 

But it was some twenty-four hours later that these 
facts came out. 

Mara, her mind at rest, but exhausted by the at- 
tack of fever, lapsed into a deep sleep. “The best of 
medicines,” as Dr. Boyle said, when he saw her next 
morning. “The danger’s past; all she needs is 
careful nursing, and I know, Miss Jane, she’ll get 
that safe enough. I’d like to have the engaging of you 
for some of my patients, I would that. But it’s 
always the best value that’s never obtainable. What 
we doctors have to put up with from nurses would 
fill a volume of criminology!” 

His hearty laugh somewhat contradicted that 
statement, and Miss Jane, pleasantly fluttered and 
gratified, was conscious that he was kissing her hand 
in gallant fashion, and that Marmaduke Dax was 
contemplating the action with distinct disapproval. 
But her mind was so relieved, her heart so light that 


“Little House” 


419 


she could have laughed for sheer joy of living in 
such a pleasant world. 

There seemed nothing amiss now. Mara would 
recover. She might even come back to her. Chris- 
topher was happy once more. There was no need 
to hurry back from Ireland, for Miss Augusta had 
written a cold and dignified permission to “stay as 
long as she pleased in that outlandish country.” 

Oh, what a pleasant world it was, and how good 
to be alive in it this summer day ! 

Meanwhile out in the shady pleasant garden Dax 
and Christopher held consultation together as to 
what punishment should be meted out to the two 
marplots of destiny whom neither had considered as 
responsible agents hitherto. 

Of all things possible and concerned with Mara’s 
flight that of it being instigated by Cherry Menlove 
and arranged by Chawley had never occurred to 
them. Yet Christopher had been well aware of 
Cherry’s jealousy of the child, and Dax had been 
equally aware of Chawley’s determined opposition to 
her permanent presence in the island. So long as 
that presence had been casual and helpful he had 
accepted it; grudgingly it is true, but without too 
apparent hostility. It was only after Katty Quirke’s 
death and the ostensible guardianship of Dax that 
he allowed his slumbering wrath to get the better of 
him. 

Dax remembered his increased sullenness; his 
secretive ways; and Christopher remembered un- 
guarded talks on the verandah that might well have 
been overheard. Bit by bit the old villain had 
pieced together a history of Mara. Models were 


420 


The Rubbish Heap 

women of light character, despised and contemned 
by the virtuous of their sex. Therefore Mara shared 
the condemnation. No decent self-respecting young 
woman would let herself be painted by a young man, 
attired only in wisps of muslin, and without even a 
shoe or stocking to her feet ! 

“But with regard to Mara’s real history, neither 
he nor Cherry could have known that?” exclaimed 
, Christopher. 

“No; for we did not know it ourselves. But there 
was gossip in the town, and around Katty Quirke 
herself. Cherry might have invented a very plausible 
story; enough to hurt and frighten one so sensitive 
as Mara.” 

“Poor little one! What she must have suffered,” 
murmured Christopher. “I could find it in my 
heart to repay in kind that old reprobate of yours. 
Picture too the slyness, the treachery, that has 
worked all this harm.” 

“And the only thing I can do is to dismiss him,” 
said Dax. “As for the girl — Do you blame yourself 
at all Christopher?” 

Christopher was silent for a moment, arguing the 
matter out for himself. “ Perhaps I should not have 
painted that Field of Poppies , ” he said. “But the 
girl seemed to suggest the subject. I found out later 
that she was horribly jealous of Mara being my 
model. Still, cher maitre, one does not look for 
tragedies in trivialities.” 

“No; but they happen,” said Dax rather grimly. 
“Here is an instance.” 

“Still, out of evil cometh good, for the 'instance* 
has brought us all together. Brought you out of your 
shell, cher maitre; shown you that your good Caliban 


“Little House” 


421 


of the island is not so to be trusted and considered 
as you supposed. Shown us too how helpful and 
womanly is the good little Jeanne. As for the rest — ” 
He paused. 

“Mara’s future rests with herself,” said Dax. 
“Choice we can give her, but not counsel.” 

“You still think she will return to the convent?” 

“I prefer to keep an open mind on that point.” 

“As on that of the punishment of Chawley?” 

“He is less criminal than that girl. But I fail to 
see what we can do to either of them. True I can 
dismiss Chawley, when I return, but he may plead 
he only did what Mara wished. She made him 
promise secrecy.” 

“There seems nothing then to be done, save nurse 
a righteous indignation, ” said Christopher. “For all 
that these two have made our poor child suffer, we, 
on the part of ourselves, cannot make them suffer 
in kind.” 

“No. For that would mean revenge, and revenge 
is a paltry thing, Christopher. Leave their punish- 
ment to Him who has said: 4 Vengeance is mine — 
I will repay.’ ” 

“You are always wise, and always right, cher 
maitre .” 

“I have learnt my wisdom, such as it is, in a harsh 
school. But I hope now the day of ‘tasks’ is over. 
I long for a little peace; a little comfort; a little — ■ 
love.” 

Christopher’s quick glance swept his face, and 
noted some change there — a softness, almost a 
shyness of expression. It set him considering matters 
that of late had charged the atmosphere with a certain 
electricity of meaning. 


422 


The Rubbish Heap 

“Life has become very pleasant, has it not?” he 
went on dreamily. “Yet see you how the hand of 
Fate points through it all. Points to this land, 
to this very place where we have all met; to the 
strangest ” 

He paused. “And the — happiest — time of my 
life, ” completed Marmaduke Dax. 

“Is that then how you regard it? What of the 
Lone Isle, and the bachelor existence, and the once 
so inspiring company of the sour-visaged Chawley? 

: v.ly, cher mattre, a change has ‘come o’er the spirit 
of your dream, ’ as one says. But why — or how is 
not plain to me to see. ” 

Marmaduke Dax laughed ; a little consciously. 

“The young, ” he said, “are often blind to what lies 
just before their eyes. They are apt to imagine that 
things of paramount importance are only for them 

>» 

“A riddle, is it, cher maUre? I find no answer as 
yet. Do you then propose to relegate Chawley to 
the Home for the Undeserving, and to set up in the 
Lone Isle an establishment no longer lonely?” 

“I confess I should like to do so, but you see, my 
boy, there are others to consult.” 

‘ ‘ M ar a — perhaps ? * ' 

“Not only Mara — your aunt Jane.” 

“My aunt Jane! . . . the little Jeanne? Is it her 
you mean — as also one of the establishment?” 

“Head and chief, if she would so honour me.” 

Christopher stared. “It occurs to me I possess 
the brains of a dormouse! Is it possible that you — • 
and Jeanne ” 

“No, no! you go too quick, my young friend. It is 
as yet only I — myself — who dare to propose such a 


“Little House” 423 

scheme. But I hope, with all my heart I hope, that 
she will consent to share it.” 

“ You have not asked that of her — yet?” 

“Not yet. It — it wants a little courage; also the 
time and the hour are not suitable. Her whole heart 
seems bound up in Mara. I tell myself I must be 
patient — a little longer.” 

“But it is glorious, splendid — this!” cried Chris- 
topher. “You, cher maitre, and the little Jeanne, and 
the Lone Isle for your two happy selves. It will 
cease to be lonely then, will it not? But the good 
Augustine — how she will be amazed!” 

“But — nothing is yet determined. I have not 
spoken.” 

“No, but think you a woman needs speech in such 
matters! She can guess and discriminate while a 
man is blundering half blindfold on the way. Oh! 
it all comes to me — that spirit of youth almost virginal 
• — those blushes of shyness, the gentle care and in- 
fluence about your health and well-being. Truly, 
cher maitre , you are wise to make this choice. With 
my whole heart I wish you success.” 

“It is strange to be talking thus, you and I,” 
said Dax. “By all precedent the case should be 
reversed. You ought to be giving me your confidence, 
and I, you my congratulations. Still, you are young; 
there is plenty of time. Also, to the young artist 
matrimony is often a hindrance, not a help. I — • 
you see am safe.” 

“Iam wedded to my art, ” said Christopher. “ Of 
follies I have had my share. I am no Puritan. But 
I do not seek love as the end and aim of life. It may 
come; doubtless it will come. I can afford to wait. ” 

He rose. Suddenly he turned and looked down 


424 


The Rubbish Heap 

towards the gate. It was opening. A dark veiled 
figure appeared and then moved slowly forwards 
to where he and Dax were visible. 

“Why — it is a nun!” he exclaimed. 

“It is the Mother Superior, ” said Dax. 

They went quickly towards the approaching 
figure. It was the Mother Superior. She greeted 
them with grave courtesy. 

“I had your letter,” she said to Christopher. 
“The news was welcome. I felt a strong desire to 
see the child, and I have driven over here today. 
May I see her?” 

“I will enquire,” said Christopher, making off to 
the house, and encountering Miss Jane on her way 
to the garden. 

“The Reverend Mother from the convent has 
called to see Mara, ” he announced. “ Is she awake? ” 

“Yes. Oh! I wonder — I mean I hope — oh! Chris- 
topher, has she come to persuade the child to leave 
us?” 

“The child will not be persuaded to do what she 
desires not to do,” said Christopher wisely. “Do 
not distress yourself, little Jeanne. I will bring the 
good Mother here and introduce her, and you can then 
take her up to Mara’s room. For the rest — it is as 
le bon Dieu will have it.” 

Miss Jane looked at him quickly. There was 
something in his face — in his eyes — the queer little 
twisted smile she knew so well that curled one corner of 
his lips.. 

11 Le bon Dieu may have other plans for you, dear 
little Jeanne,” he murmured, and leaving her to her 
confusion and surprise he hastened back to the Mother 
Superior. 


“Little House” 


425 


It was some ten minutes later that Miss Jane came 
back to the garden and the seats under the sycamore 
trees. Christopher had disappeared. _ Dax was there 
alone. 

“They asked me to leave them together,” she 
explained hurriedly. “Mara seemed pleased to see 
the good nun again. But oh! Mr. Dax, I hope she 
will not persuade her to return to the convent. To 
take the veil! . . . What should I do? Just as a 
real interest comes into my life I should again lose 
it. It — it would grieve me very much.” 

“For your sake I should be sorry,” said Dax 
gravely. “But for Mara — does it not seem to you a 
way out of many difficulties? There is nothing in 
the world, as we count the world, that appeals to the 
child, or ever did. Even when you took her from the 
curiosity shop and gave her a home under your roof 
she was no whit happier. You could not keep her. 
I could not keep her. To Christopher now she would 
be something of an encumbrance. Dearly as we all 
love this strange child we must allow for the cir- 
cumstances of her birth and history. They set her 
apart from the ordinary meaning of childhood. She 
is a thing of tragedy and sorrow. I — who knew 
her mother, know also into what suffering she was 
born. If the religious life, as they call it, offers 
her soul the peace it claims, then, no selfish need of 
ours should restrain her from accepting it. If — • 
she prefers to live with you, or shall I say with us — • 
for indeed, dear Miss Jane, you and I and Chris- 
topher seem as one family now — am I speaking too — • 
frankly?” 

“No — o, ” said the little spinster, lifting timid but 
eloquent eyes to his face. 


426 The Rubbish Heap 

“If — ” he paused, “she chooses that life it will be 
because her heart dictates it. But, whatever her 
choice I fail to see that it need so alter — your — I 
mean our position.” 

‘‘But you will return to your island again, I sup- 
pose?” 

He did not answer immediately. He was thinking 
how lonely that island would be after these weeks of a 
family life. Of Chawley’s surly face, and greeting, 
instead of the kind blue eyes and gentle voice that gave 
him welcome here. 

“What did you think of my island when you saw 
it?” he asked suddenly. 

Miss Jane’s thoughts flew back to that adventurous 
morning; to Chawley’s unaccountable behaviour. 
Then suddenly a memory of her discovery in the 
locked-up room rushed back to her mind. In all the 
stress and confusion of changed circumstances she 
had never given a second thought to it. Dax, watch- 
ing her face, saw that pink flag of embarrassment; 
the sudden tremor and fear that swept aside its 
ordinary placid peace. He wondered what there had 
been in his simple question to cause that embarrass- 
ment. She tried to recover composure, to speak 
calmly, but the effort was perceptible. 

“It was charming, and the house ” 

“Ah — you saw that? But I fear it was all covered 
up and dismantled, was it not?” 

“Yes, but the pictures. What a splendid artist 
you were, Mr. Dax. Why don’t you paint — now?” 

“I gave it up, years ago. I find my pleasure now in 
the works of my pupil; his progress, his efficiency, 
his success.” 

Miss Jane’s slender fingers were twisting themselves 


“Little House” 427 

into nervous knots. She felt that she could not keep 
silence on that discovery. 

“ Mr. Dax, ” she faltered, “has Chawley ever written 
to you about my visit ?” 

He looked surprised. 

“No. For one reason he can’t write, or says he 
can’t. For another he does not know where I am 
at present.” 

She drew a sudden breath of relief. 

“I feel I ought to tell you about it, though I shall 
lose your good opinion by so doing.” 

“I cannot picture such an unlikely circumstance.” 

“Oh, but you don’t know — yet. I’m so ashamed 
of myself I hardly dare to tell you. Mr. Dax — ” 
Her agitation was so painful that he longed to take 
the twisting fingers and hold them in his own. “When 
I went over your house I — I made a discovery ” 

“Yes?” he questioned smiling. 

“Oh!” she burst forth impetuously, “Why did you 
deceive Christopher! It was you who bought his 
picture, and you have hidden it away, and he — he 
believed he had sold it on its own merits!” 

“Could I not judge those merits sufficiently to 
purchase it for myself?” 

“Of course. But then why did he never know? 
Why was it hidden away as if you were ashamed 
of it?” 

“ I might ask how on earth you discovered all this, ” 
he said. “But I won’t. I will give you my reasons, 
and I do not think they are unforgivable. I bought 
that picture back from its original purchaser because 
I wanted it. Because it meant Mara, and something 
more than Mara. . . . Her mother’s soul looked 
back at me from those sad eyes. I could not bear 


428 


The Rubbish Heap 

to think they were looking back at other eyes 
who neither knew nor cared for their meaning. I did 
not tell Christopher because at that time we were 
ignorant of Mara’s history; her strange connection 
with us both. But I meant to tell him — some day. 
I shall tell him when we return to the island.” 

She looked up. Her eyes filled with tears. “It 
is good of you to explain. Will you pardon my 
curiosity ? I — I can never think what possessed me 
to look into that cupboard!” 

“Dear Miss Jane, it only shows you feminine 
and adorable by reason of your sex’s weakness ! Also, 
it has merely hastened a disclosure that was bound 
to be made. For if Christopher knew, then you 
would have known also. After all it is not a very 
terrible secret.” 

Fie bent a little closer. “I am glad you told me. 
I am glad you saw it. I will hang it in the ‘room 
beautiful,’ as Mara calls it, when I return. And I 
hope ” 

He paused. Her eyes were downcast, but the 
fluttering hands were now composed and clasped 
together on her grey linen dress. There was some- 
thing dove-like and serene about her; something 
inexpressibly attractive. 

“Did you think that room — beautiful?” 

“The most wonderful and the most beautiful I 
have ever seen, ” she said earnestly. 

“It needs something; it needs what this house 
possesses,” said Dax. “I have learnt my loss in 
what I fear to gain. ” 

“You mean — those children? ” 

“I mean all of us,” he said. “Mara, and Chris- 
topher, and you. Do you know, dear Miss Jane, I 


“Little House” 


429 


am not perhaps so old, or such a misanthrope as I 
have pretended. It was my whim to add years and 
surliness to my actual bad qualities. My old servitor 
aided and abetted my unamiable proclivities. But 
— someone — has changed all that. Has shed the 
sunshine of her gentle nature, and her sweet un- 
selfishness over my hard heart. I have learnt it was 
not so hard; that a few flowers might yet bloom in the 
soil of its isolation. I — but what need to explain. 
I may, perhaps, seem to you only an old fool, but the 
fool is conscious of the truest wisdom of his life when 
he says to you — Will you come into that life? Will 
you let it join your own for the remainder of its 
journey?” 

Miss Jane looked at the outstretched hand. It was 
not quite steady. Looked up into the anxious eyes. 
They were no longer spectacled; nor were they the 
eyes of age, rather those of hope. Confused and 
shaken she sought for mid-Victorian response as 
given in the Book of Etiquette Miss Augusta had once 
presented to her. 

“ I am indeed — honoured . . . flattered, but — ” Then 
natural sense and sensibility broke the last threads of 
unnatural pretences. “ Do you really mean ” 

“I mean I love you and respect you more than any 
woman I have ever met. I want to make you happy 
— if I can. I flatter myself that we understand one 
another sufficiently to have a fair chance of such 
happiness, and that we can afford to be independent 
of other opinions. Am I right?” 

“Perfectly right,” said Miss Jane. “Of course I 
had long given up hopes of — of marrying, but ” 

“Absurd nonsense!” exclaimed Dax. “Why even 
I have a rival here, and you know it.” 


43 ° 


The Rubbish Heap 

She laughed and blushed. “I did not know it.” 

“Well, I did; and I don’t approve of his kissing 
your hand and saying all sorts of sweet things, even 
if he is an Irishman, and a doctor at that!” 

“ What on earth will Christopher say? ” gasped Miss 
Jane suddenly. 

“Christopher highly approved my good sense. 
I will tell him it is now my good fortune,” said the 
elderly lover with true gallantry. 

Ii “Oh — and Augusta!” she murmured, in a fresh 
tremor of agitation. 

“Bother Augusta!” said Marmaduke Dax. “She 
has spoilt one half of your life; it’s time she was 
prevented spoiling the other. Now ” 

He bent forward, but Miss Jane all aquiver with 
fluttered modesty glanced up to the open windows 
of the house. 

“Oh — not here !* 9 she faltered. 

“Why not? I’m not ashamed,” said Marmaduke 
Dax. 

“Ahem! . . .Well done, cher maitre!” said a voice 
from the neighbouring bushes. 


SCENE THE LAST 
Agglestone House Again 

• « • • . . 

Action in the Scene 

Breakfast time, but only a solitary occupant of 
the breakfast room, and no Tomlinson to hand the 
cups; only a sour-visaged parlourmaid of strict non- 
conformist principles. Letters lay on the table; 
three in all, but true to the regulations of her well- 
regulated life Miss Augusta did not attempt to read 
them until the maid had left the room. 

Then she looked at the superscriptions of each. 

“All from Ireland ! 0 she said to herself. ‘‘One 
from Jane, one from Christopher. I — I don’t know 
the other handwriting.” 

Possibly for that reason she opened it first and 
received something of a shock which might have been 
avoided by a pre-perusal of either of the others. 

The Letter 

Dear Madam: 

I have the honour to inform you that your sister 
Jane was married to me yesterday at the Registrar’s 
Office of this town. Your nephew, and now by good 
fortune mine — gave away the bride, and another 
friend, our medical adviser, Dr. Boyle, was my 
supporter. We chose an informal ceremony by 
43i 


432 


The Rubbish Heap 

mutual consent, and a dislike of publicity in a purely 
personal matter. It is our intention to remain in 
Ireland for some time longer. When we return, it is 
probable we shall make our home on my little pro- 
perty, of which you have heard, and which both your 
sister and our nephew greatly admire. 

We trust you will pardon our not acquainting you 
with the prelude to our union — a period which was 
happily brief. 

I consider myself the most fortunate of men, for 
in tastes and sympathies and the mutual interests 
of life my dear Jane and myself are most truly one. 

Trusting you will accept this explanation with your 
well-known courtesy, and hoping, ere long, to make 
my compliments in person, I remain, dear madam — 
Yours sincerely and fraternally, 

Marmaduke Dax. 

To give any adequate description of Miss Augusta’s 
face, or feelings as she read this epistle is impossible. 

She stared at the paper, at the writing, at the 
signature. She for once gasped out a frenzied excla- 
mation, instead of framing it on prescribed lines of 
“conduct under all circumstances.” 

Then, as if incredulous, she seized her sister’s 
letter and tore open the envelope. With some 
instinct of femininity, still unextinguished, she glanced 
first at the end of the closely covered sheets. 

Good Heavens! Was she mad, or dreaming, or 
had the world turned into chaos in the past night! 
For there plain enough, in the small neat Italian hand- 
writing of their school days, was the signature. 

“Your attached and loving sister 
“Jane Louisa Dax.” 


433 


Agglestone House Again 

Dax! — not Agglestone! Then it was true! Jane 
had actually married. Married without her sister’s 
consent — without even a trousseau, or a proper decent 
church ceremony ! 

It was so incredible, so amazing, that Miss Augusta 
had the nearest approach to hysterics she had ever 
permitted herself. 

To have dared to act like this! Jane the meek, 
the down-trodden, the unobtrusive, whom even in her 
first “fling for liberty” she had only mocked. 

She began that letter next. 

Dear Augusta : 

You will, I am sure, be very much surprised to hear 
I have married Mr. Marmaduke Dax, the great 
artist, who was Christopher’s friend. We are truly 
attached to one another, and the marriage is quite 
suitable in point of age and — other matters. Dear 
Christopher is delighted and was, of course, present 
at the ceremony, which Mr. Dax will explain to you 
in his letter. I feel greatly honoured by his choice, 
and also by the sincere affection he has evinced for 
me. Probably you will not credit this, but it is true; 
and it makes me very proud and very happy. 

I should of course have written to inform you of our 
engagement but my husband thought it best to wait 
until we were married. For he dreaded anything 
in the shape of objections, or opposition, and you 
know, dear Augusta, you have always opposed any 
wish of mine that did not march with your own 
inclinations. 

Now, I will change the subject, and tell you about 
Mara. I wrote you about her discovery, but you 
have never alluded to it. For a time she was very 


28 


434 


The Rubbish Heap 

ill, but our good and skilful doctor brought her round, 
and she is now able to get up every day, and to sit 
for a few hours in the garden. 

Tomlinson has been invaluable to us all this time. 
I don’t know what we should have done without him. 
I believe he has written to give you formal notice as 
he wishes to enter our service when we return to 
Prawle. That may not be till quite the end of 
September, as we like this house and the country so 
much. I shall, of course, live on the island for the 
future and am enchanted with the idea; for the house 
is lovely, and Christopher will spend much of his 
time with us. 

With regard to Mara — there is something I must 
tell you when we meet. It is too painful, and too 
intricate to describe on paper. Only I am glad 
that I offered her a home, and recognized, even in 
those days, that she was no mere common child, as 
you supposed. 

I fear I shall not be able to keep her with me, for 
she has a passionate longing to enter the convent, and 
the Mother Superior is anxious she should do so. Of 
course it would be some considerable time before 
’she was admitted to the order, but Christopher and 
Marmaduke both agree that it is the best life she 
could choose. This will not interest you, I imagine, 
but it is right you should know it. 

And now I will conclude this long and — possibly — • 
surprising letter. In spite of our late differences and 
our very cold and formal parting, I hope you will 
believe, dear Augusta, that I sincerely regret my own 
loss of temper and respect, and am as always your 
attached and loving sister. 


Jane Louisa Dax. 


Agglestone House Again 435 

“It must be a great comfort to a man to swear, ” 
muttered Miss Augusta, as she flung down the last 
sheet of this epistle. “Of all the' incredible and 
ridiculous things! . . . But, of course, Jane would do 
something ridiculous when left to herself. I might 
have expected it. Now — what has Christopher to 
say?” 

She took up the last of the three letters and opened 
it. Her fingers were strangely tremulous. Perhaps 
a memory of that morning when his first letter had 
lain on that same table and his first greeting to herself 
reached her ears, came back and softened the harsh- 
ness of her face. 

This is what Christopher said : 

Chere Augustine — my most dear Aunt : 

I have to communicate to you some great and 
charming news. Our dear little Jeanne is now the 
wife of one of the best and kindest men in the world. 
They are so well suited, and so absolutely happy that 
it fills me with envy to behold. 

As you know who and what Monsieur Dax is, there 
needs to say no more, for he has plenty of this world’s 
goods, and he is devoted also to our little Jeanne. 
They were married soon after they had agreed to 
marry. It seemed best to us all. The young can 
afford to waste precious months — even years — over an 
engagement, but our good friends are not of the 
premiere jeunes'se, and so why waste even weeks? 

That you were not advised of the matter may per- 
haps give you some vexation, but — that will pass; 
for what is inevitable we must accept, and acceptance 
comes with a better grace when it is well expressed. 

If you wish to blame any one then let it be me, your 


436 


The Rubbish Heap 

graceless and most troublesome nephew, for I was the 
leader of the game, shall I say, and marched those 
two dear helpless ones into the bonds of legal matri- 
mony before they knew they were en route for that 
blissful goal ! 

It was the best way, and the way that most com- 
mended itself, and behold when the lune de mid is 
happily accomplished we shall settle down en famille } 
with a contentment that a king might envy. 

Our dear Mara is with us, and of improved health 
and strength. Later, we shall know of her decision 
whether she returns with us to England, or joins the 
order of the religieuses, as is her great desire. 

I think now, dear my aunt, that I have told you all 
that is necessary of these affairs. We await your 
response with some anxiety; and yet — I — knowing 
so well your kindness of heart, the manner in which 
you welcomed me to your home those long years ago, 
have no fear but that with the same angelic goodness 
you will welcome also your new brother, who, perhaps, 
may yet stand in place of that other one — my so 
unhappy father, whom I have never forgotten, and 
whom I hope you have sometimes regretted. 

With all affection and respect I remain chere 
Augustine, 

Your affectionate nephew 
Christopher. 


‘ 4 A ngelic goodness! ’ ’ 

Slowly, very slowly, Miss Augusta laid down those 
flimsy single sheets of foreign paper which Christopher 
always used. 

For long moments she sat there and stared at them, 


Agglestone House Again 437 

yet saw nothing of the blurred lines or the quaint 
expressions. 

What she did see was a little leather shoe, some 
faded letters in rough schoolboy hand; what she 
heard, was the sudden opening of a door, the bright 
quick greeting of a voice : 

11 1 am Christopher — your nephew . I hope I am not 
unwelcome? ” 

And then for no other reason surely than that she 
was queer and crabbed, and lonely and old, Miss 
Augusta Agglestone caught up that letter, and kissed 
it with the fervour of a mother, whose son might have 
written just such words. 

“I don’t mind ... I don’t care!” she cried sud- 
denly. “Jane may go — and this Dax, he is nothing 
to me — but Christopher. . . . Oh, I want to keep 
Christopher! He is the only one who ever believed 
in me! ” 

And slow scorching tears fell on the words that 
breathed something of the laughing audacity that 
had penned them. 

For Christopher had said — “ I too will write to the 
good Augustine. I, of you all, understand best how 
to manage her.” 


Perhaps he was right. 


FINIS 











































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By 

A. H. Fitch 

12°. Color Frontispiece. $1.35 

The story deals in part with Legation 
life in Peking but mainly with events in 
the imperial palace and among the people 
and the beggars of Peking. A perfectly 
correct portrayal of that extraordinary 
character, the Empress Dowager, is 
given. While not an historical novel, 
the romance contains historical truths. 
The author is a niece of a former U. S. 
Minister to China and lived there with 
her aunt and uncle for two years. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

London 


New York 


To the Minute 

By 

Anna Katharine Green 

Author of "The Leavenworth Case,” "That Affair 
Next Door,” etc. 

/ 2 °. Color Frontispiece. $1.00. Postage 
additional 

A fascinating story by “the foremost writer 
of mystery novels in America.” A rebellious 
boy, at the age of fifteen, runs away from 
“home” where he has lived with his miserly 
grandfather. At the old man’s death (from 
suicide), he is called back by his cousin Judith, 
also an orphan and the only other heir to the 
miser’s money. There is a third person, who 
had tried to induce Judith to marry him, and 
around these three and the forbidding house is 
woven the most exciting mystery story of many 
a day. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 































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